WARNINGS: STRONG Language . . .
Detective Nathan Campbell walked around the police car and through a half dozen cops to reach the steps of the apartment building. He bounded through the front doors and into organized chaos. A police photographer was behind the desk, snapping pictures.
He looked around. "What have we got," he asked.
Harry Chon, another BPD detective already on the scene, moved around the desk to meet him. "Homicide. Someone killed the security guard. Man's name was Thomas Dulane. Double tap to the chest; one to the head. Looks professionally done, but forensics is on it."
"Any witnesses? Someone had to have heard the gun," Campbell said.
Chon shook his head. "No one heard a thing. We think the guy must have used a silencer."
Campbell glanced over his shoulder at the large number of vehicles outside. It was an epileptic's nightmare. "All this for a security guard? No offense to the guy. I'm sure he was a real upstanding fellow, but this seems like a lot of blue for one guy."
He frowned as he spotted drops of blood on the floor, leading out of the building, or leading in, although that seemed unlikely. The path of the blood trail was cordoned off.
"Did the security guard carry a firearm?" It would be a stroke of luck to get the perp's DNA and blood type.
"No, and this didn't come from here," Chon told him; pointing in the direction of the stairwell, and saving Campbell the seconds it would have taken him to discover it for himself. "The trail starts on the eleventh floor and leads through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk. It disappears near the curb; leading us to believe that the perp left in a vehicle. Forensics is busy trying to get a tire print to go off of, but there is so much traffic, we can't be sure any tire prints will belong to the murderer's car."
"But he was injured," Campbell asked. "The perp, I mean."
Chon shook his head again. "Look, you need to start upstairs. So far, we have two dead bodies and one kidnap victim missing, possibly already dead."
"Right," Campbell moved toward the elevator. He would start at the top and make his way back down.
"Oh, and Campbell?" Chon waited until the other detective turned around. "This one is personal. It looks like the kidnap victim, the owner of the apartment, is engaged to a cop."
Campbell scowled; acknowledging the unwelcomed news with a nod. He headed upstairs.
The place was a shambles. Broken furniture and glass abounded as did blood. He knelt beside the body of a man. By his position, he looked like he had been shoved aside; a trail of congealing blood confirmed as much. He had been killed just inside the door and then shoved out of the path when the murderer went to leave.
He didn't recognize the guy, though, but that didn't mean he didn't feel solid remorse over the loss of a fellow officer. He waved at the uniform stationed at the door.
"Hey," Campbell read his badge. "Henderson! Did you know him?"
Officer Henderson shook his head. He pointed to a weeping woman talking to a couple of officers in the hallway. "That's a neighbor. His wife is over there. Loud noises and a scream woke them up. This guy, Christopher Gerhig, came over to see what was happening and if the woman who owns the apartment needed any help. Whoever our murderer is, killed him and dragged his body inside. The wife dialed 911 just a few minutes after dispatch received a call from this address."
"This address? So this guy's sacrifice gave the victim time to call for help?" Campbell murmured. He made a note to have a copy of the tape from the call forward to his phone.
He moved around carefully before stopping by the broken side table along the wall opposite the door. One lone picture still hung here, although it was lopsided. He ignored the urge to straighten it, however, until he could be sure that the police photographer had time to get a shot of it.
He tilted his head in order to check it out. He was assuming at this point that the kidnapped victim was the woman in the picture and that the cop engaged to her was the fellow dancing with her. One side of his mouth quirked up. They look good together.
He stared hard at the man. He looked familiar. Campbell was positive that he had seen the guy before. At the station? Possibly.
"So, anyone know this guy," he called out, pointing to the picture with his thumb.
"I know him."
Campbell turned around. Officer . . . Thatcher. "What can you tell me about him, Thatcher?" He hated to do it, but Bludhaven was still swarming with dirty cops. Until he had an alibi, this guy was a suspect.
""His name is Richard Grayson. Most of the guys called him Dick," Thatcher reported.
"Dick? Like the nickname for Richard or because he's an asshole?"
"Like the nickname for Richard," Thatcher clarified. "Nice guy. He was pretty amazing back in the academy. Top scores in everything. It made some people loved him; others . . . not so much."
"So," Campbell looked at his watch. "It's twenty after twelve. Where is he?"
"I heard tell he has an apartment across town," Thatcher said. "Although I did hear one of the forensics people say that he keeps clothes here, too."
Campbell narrowed his eyes and looked around. Despite the mess, the apartment was in an upscale part of town. Its furnishings, although mostly demolished, were high-end stuff. Grayson looked as though he were moving up in the world. Campbell wondered what the woman did. She was probably well-paid to be able to afford this.
"Tell me about the woman," Campbell asked as he knelt to note different areas that were especially destroyed. Struggles took place in each. The woman was a fighter. The man had had to struggle to subdue her.
"Arabella Hamilton, according to the lease. She's a musician based upon the number of instruments we've found stashed throughout the place. Lost her father recently. Cedric Hamilton."
"Wait! Did you day Cedric Hamilton? That millionaire out of Chicago?" Campbell's ears perked up.
"Excuse me, detective?"
Campbell turned as one of the forensic people stepped up to him. He didn't recognize her. Checking her name out on her badge, he decided she was new. He knew everyone in the forensics department.
"What have you got for me, Lisa, is it?" Campbell asked her.
She handed him a Fed Ex envelope and several sheets of paper. "I found this under the couch with what I believe is the victim's cell phone."
Campbell yanked some latex gloves out of his pocket and took the items from the young woman. "Well, Thatcher, Lisa, let's see what we've got here," he said as he carried the items to the dining room table.
He spread the papers out, scanning them as he placed them into two piles. "Looks like we have two separate documents," he mumbled; thinking out loud. "This one is a copy of Cedric Hamilton's last will and testament, and this one . . . is a court order for Arabella Hamilton to appear in Chicago for a competency hearing."
He whistled. "Has anyone here ever met this woman before?"
Thatcher shrugged. "Not personally, no. At least, not that I know of. I saw this little music video she did once for Grayson, however. Why?"
"Music video, huh?"
Thatcher grinned. "It was pretty good."
"Hm," Campbell nodded. "Did she seem with it to you? Or could you tell?"
"With it?" Thatcher frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, did she seem . . . like, normal to you?" Campbell made a face. He hated all the political correct crap nowadays. Fuck it. "Or was she, like, retarded?"
Lisa Whatshername looked a little shocked, but managed to contain it. Thatcher, however, snorted.
"Oh, she looked with it all right," the officer smirked. "She was kind of hot!"
Campbell rolled his eyes. As he suspected as he continued to scan the documents and compare; someone, probably this other guy, Aiden Hamilton, was trying to steal her inheritance . . . which was considerable! He raised his eyebrows. Damn . . . But would he get it if she died? Another page and a couple of paragraphs down answered that question; no.
It would, however, go to Officer Grayson . . .
Bingo! He thought. Motive! Just follow the money. It worked in solving almost ninety percent of their cases.
"Thatcher, get on the radio and send a car over to Officer Grayson's apartment," Campbell ordered.
"Um, okay, sure," the younger man agreed. "I'm on it."
Something clicked in his brain, and Campbell glanced back at the will where it listed Officer Grayson as the secondary heir to the majority of Cedric Hamilton's millions. Where was it? There . . . If, for some reason, Arabella Hamilton died, Richard John Grayson-Wayne would inherit Hamilton Industries and the sum of $348 million; him or their children or children's children. He read the name again; Richard John Grayson-Wayne. Grayson-Wayne . . . Hm, Wayne.
Why did that mean something? Apparently, Officer "Dick" was known on the force only by Grayson. The hyphenated "Wayne" had been left off . . . Why? This was significant, but Campbell wasn't sure how yet.
There were plenty of dirty cops in Bludhaven. Campbell had been unsurprised when some of the evidence implicated the fiancé. In homicide cases, the spouse, significant other, boyfriend/girlfriend, or, as in this case, the fiancé was always suspect number one until proof or an alibi can be found to clear them from the list. Or unless compelling evidence was found that implicated someone else.
This Aiden-dude was still on there, but from what little Campbell gleaned from his scan-through of the will and the court order, it didn't really make sense for him to be behind this. But Campbell hated dirty cops . . . And this one bothered him.
Why did it bother him? It was more than he hated finding more evidence of the stinking disease that ate at the fiber of an honorable profession . . . His honorable profession! He turned his head and glanced back at that picture hanging askew on the wall; the one of the couple dancing.
The two of them had been gazing adoringly into one another's eyes. They certainly 'looked' like they were in love. He prided himself on his observation skills and his ability to 'read' people, and if he were any judge at all, Grayson – or Grayson-Wayne, whatever he was calling himself these days – was either seriously head over heels in love with that woman or he was Oscar-award-winning material.
Maybe that was what was bothering him.
It wasn't just that he didn't want to discover yet another fellow cop was dirty. Campbell didn't want that look he saw in that photo to be a lie. It gave him hope; that look. Hope that the world in general, and specifically Bludhaven in particular, wasn't a lost cause; that he wasn't risking life and limb every day for a city of lies.
Campbell wouldn't mind taking a bullet for something like what he saw in that photograph, however. He'd be willing to die to protect something like that.
As Thatcher stepped away to either do his bidding or delegate the task to another uniform, Campbell turned his attention to the victim's cell phone. He turned it on and began scrolling through her numbers; handling it carefully so as not to smudge any potential fingerprints.
"Lisa, I'll need someone to get a list of all of these people, including full name and addresses."
He came to the end of the list, frowning. Grayson's name wasn't listed. He went back through, looking in the D's, the G's, the R's, and lastly the W's. Could the two have had a falling out? He moved through the list backward, slowly. He stopped and stared. His lips lifted and he chuckled, then covered it with a cough.
Rather inappropriate, Campbell, he berated himself. But he was certain he had discovered Grayson's phone number under a title rather than a name. After all, who else would label someone 'Sweet Cheeks', if not your fiancée?
He pulled out his note book, jotted down the number, and started scrolling again. Third time's a charm . . . He halted a second time. How had he missed this before? Bruce Wayne? The billionaire . . . was on speed dial.
The name . . . Wayne. Wait just a damn minute! Was this unassuming Bludhaven cop somehow related to the Gotham City Billionaire? This was something that bore looking into. If Grayson was related to Wayne, and was also in good standing with the man, then his motive for murdering or kidnapping his fiancée just went flying out the window.
"Hey, Campbell," Chon called as he entered the apartment; stepping over the mess, the body, and the blood. "The super just gave us the security footage for the lobby, and you won't believe what we've found!"
The decision was made to use the victim's television to watch the footage. Chon had already viewed it, so he put it in and skipped to the time log the preceded the 911 call by forty minutes. All movement stopped in the apartment, even talking was suspended although there was no sound, as the forensics team and the two officers watched the action unfolding.
The murder of the guard happened extremely fast and executed with precision; reinforcing the detectives' theory that this was a professional hit. The guy comes through the door and in seconds the guard is dead on the floor. He manages to walk around the desk and hide the body, look up information (presumably Arabella Hamilton's apartment number), and enter the elevator all without ever showing more than perhaps twenty-five percent of his face. Yet another clue that the guy did this for a living.
He knew where the camera was at.
Chon skipped ahead fifty minutes later, and they could see the door to the stairwell opening to the far left of the screen. The guy was carrying a body of a woman over his shoulder. She was barefoot, and blood could be seen dripping from her toes from cuts visible even in the slightly-grainy picture. She was wearing what Campbell assumed was a short, silky, white robe, or what he thought used to be white. It was streaked with red stains from her injuries. Her body was draped carefully over the shoulder between the camera and the man's face. As he passed by, the woman's long, dark hair covered her face, but blood could again be seen staining the back of the man's shirt and pants. Somehow, Campbell assumed that most, if not all, of the blood visible came from the woman's injuries.
Chon was paused the video when Thatcher reentered the apartment.
"No one's home at Grayson's apartment," he told him.
Campbell indicated the partial they had of the kidnapper. "You recognize anyone here," he asked the officer.
Thatcher looked at the screen as Chon brought up the best angle they had of the perp's face. He was silent for a moment, and then shook his head. "Nope! Never saw the guy before."
Campbell looked at him, unamused. "You can say that with conviction?"
Thatcher hesitated. "Well, no, but I was assuming you were asking if I thought that guy was Dick Grayson. He isn't."
"You're that sure? That's not a very good picture. It's all grainy and not very clear, and the partial face is barely even that. He's kept his head away from the camera the entire time," Campbell wanted to be certain.
"Well, it's kind of hard to tell from the angle of the camera, but I think this guy is taller than Grayson. He's definitely stockier throughout the body, although Grayson's shoulders and chest are impressive for his build. This guy's hair looks shorter and lighter as well. I suppose Grayson could have gotten a haircut since the last time I saw him," Thatcher postulated.
"And when was that," Campbell asked.
"A week ago, or thereabouts." Thatcher admitted.
"Have you met any of Grayson's family perchance?" It was a shot in the dark, but Campbell tried anyway.
Thatcher snorted. "No. We're not exactly close. Just co-workers. We've worked an accident together a few times, and answered a number of 10-31s with him."
"Has he ever talked about them?"
"His family?"
Campbell nodded. "His father or uncle specifically?"
"No, sorry," Thatcher answered. "You might try Amy Rohrback, though. She's his partner."
"Hm," Campbell hummed noncommittedly. He hoped it wouldn't come to that; that the evidence would lead him in another direction, but he scribbled the partner's name down anyway.
Another forensic tech entered the living room from the short hallway. The tech waved at Lisa, and Campbell grew curious as he watched the fellow whispering to her.
That guy found something . . . Whether or not it related to the case remained to be seen, but he found something that was worth noting.
Lisa came back to him with a small, white stick in a baggie and held between gloved fingers.
"We might want to step this up," she told him in a frantic whisper. "We need to find this woman as soon as possible!"
"We always try to find the victims quickly and safely if we can," Campbell scolded lightly. He was even more curious to know why the woman who was totally professional ten minutes ago seemed suddenly agitated.
"One of the other techs found this hidden behind some things in the medicine cabinet," she told him.
Campbell took the baggie from her and held it up. "What is it?" he asked. But one glance already told him everything he needed to know.
A pregnancy test? . . . Oh shit; it was positive!
"Damn it," he growled angrily, startling Chon and a handful of others. "Goddamn it to hell!"
"What's up," Chon asked, leaning in over his shoulder to squint at the little stick. "Oh, man . . ."
"How old do you think this is," Campbell asked her.
Lisa sighed. "Hours . . . maybe; if that. Devon said, he found the box in a pharmacy bag with the receipt. It's dated today," she looked at her watch and corrected herself. "I mean, yesterday late afternoon."
"Shit," Campbell spat. "Do you think Grayson knows that his fiancée's pregnant?"
"Did anyone ever find him," Chon asked, looking around the room.
Campbell frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Just that the security footage shows him entering the premises an hour and a half before this guy," Chon points to the perpetrator on the television screen, "shows up . . . But it doesn't show him leaving."
Campbell frowned. "What? Are you shitting me?" He turns around and barks, "Check the windows, the closets, under the beds!" He points to Thatcher. "Start knocking on doors. See if he's visiting any of the neighbors."
"You think maybe he's having a poker night with the boys," Chon asked.
Campbell scowled. "I'm thinking that it's time we try to find the bastard."
Thatcher frowned. "You think he's guilty of something?"
"No. No, I don't," he sighed. "I don't see this guy leaving his fiancée alone if she told him she was pregnant unless the kid isn't his. I don't see this guy running out on his woman, pregnant or not, if she were being attacked. So, he's either visiting someone or maybe the murderer got the better of him and stashed his body someplace."
Chon glanced back at the neighbor's body. "Why would the murderer leave this guy lying around and go to the trouble of hiding the body of someone he supposedly planned to kill?"
"How do you know he was planning to kill Grayson, too?"
"The murderer admits to as much. It was caught on the 911 tape after the victim called in," Chon told him.
"Did you hear it," Campbell asks.
Chon shook his head. "Not yet. Was just given the basics from the call."
Campbell grabs Lisa's arm. "Get me that tape!"
Thatcher returned. "Forensics has given this place the once over and there are no other bodies stashed anywhere," he reports. "And None of the neighbors has admitted to seeing Grayson tonight."
"Then where is he?" Campbell looked at Chon and exclaimed. He tossed his arms wide to encompass the demolished apartment.
Chon fished his cellphone out of his pocket. "I think it's time we ask him. You got his number?"
Campbell smiled, remembering the victim's entry title for him. "I do," he said, pulling out his notebook. "That I do."
REACTIONS?
Update tomorrow . . . Earlier, I promise. Watch for it! Wonder what Dick's going to tell them about how he got out of the building without being seen on the security video. Hm . . .
Oh, and a 10-31 stands for "Crime in Progress".