Donning normal street attire and leaving without his limo, Kyle departs Richmond Tower to cross the city to the Cosmopolis Public Library. As he approaches the hundred-year-old stone steps of the library, he fires off a quick text to Greyburn to collect some information from the police network on the Jenkins crime ring. He silences and pockets his phone, heading inside the grand old library. The smell of old paper permeates the air, a dusty and oppressive smell that pairs naturally with the almost blanketing sense of quiet. He studies the interior of the library, the green wallpaper, the high stone ceiling, classical murals painted from one end of the ceiling to the other… And then heads towards the help desk, getting the attention of a librarian.
"How can I help you today?" She inquired with a hushed voice.
"Hi," He leans in, "I'm looking for any information you can find on the Catholic Order of St. Berchard."
"That may take some time," She replies evenly, "Are you in any sort of rush?"
He feels some wry amusement, "A bit, but any way you can help is appreciated, ma'am."
"Do you have a research pass? Special access is required for some of our materials," She explains.
"No…" He says, pulling out his wallet, "But my friends do." A thick wad of cash adding up to a couple thousand dollars is pushed across the counter, causing her eyes to go wide. She looks at the money for a long moment before glancing up at him.
"I am in a bit of a rush," He reiterates.
She quickly grabs the money and pockets it. She grabs a pad from her workstation and scribbles out some notes on it, before tearing a slip out and handing it to him, "You're at desk number twenty-seven," She explains hurriedly. "It'll take me a bit of time, maybe an hour, to find all the materials in our reference index, depending on how much there is, of course. Please feel free to peruse our collection until then."
Kyle takes the slip and thanks her, first taking the slip and then finding the desk, which has a PC with internet access. Signaling Charles to place the Jenkins information on a net-accessible database, Kyle waits for the librarian to return with his materials as he studies the Jenkins crime ring. It had operated from 1989-1991, led by twice-convicted felon Zachary Jenkins, who had worked largely with Cole and Hope, who brought in the other three members. Their primary MO was using Cosmopolis as their base of operations and hitting banks all across New England. While the FBI had gotten involved, it was Isaac Moreau who ultimately busted them for an unrelated case, a homicide they'd tried to cover up. Other members included Allen Trey, Robert Bowe, Abraham Hogan, Edward Hope, and Alonzo "Lonnie" Cole. Jenkins and Trey had been killed and immolated by the murderer in the prior month… Bowe had received his due just a few nights back. Effie had mentioned that Hogan was the only native son of Cosmopolis, which gave her some threads to pull on in hopes of finding him, but finding Hope and Cole would be a bit more difficult. He looks over their charges… Armed robbery, grand theft auto, murder in the first degree… After being caught, they were convicted and jailed, serving ten years apiece before going out on parole, except for Jenkins, who got out in 2004. A year later, Isaac Moreau went missing. And now, one by one, they were being hunted down like dogs and murdered in the street.
He closes the database, signaling Charles to lock it down to prevent anyone from accidentally stumbling across it, even though it was extremely unlikely that anyone could… And then he requested that the database be updated with the CPD's file on Moreau. The Jenkins gang had been cut down to half their number, Isaac Moreau was missing, and right now the symbol of St. Berchard was the only strong lead they had to figure out how everything was connected. After a few minutes, he navigates back to the database, finding Moreau's personnel file. Isaac Dean Moreau was born in Buckston, Theresana, and went to school at University of La Nouvelle-Paris, graduating… Kyle sighs, clicking away. The personnel file was largely useless… No personal information, nothing about his religious leanings… The only thing of use was contact information for Moreau's family down south in case of an emergency. Might be able to use that to dredge up some useful intel.
He sets that aside as the librarian returns with a few thick tomes of information about the Catholic Church, book about the different saintly and religious orders of the church, and some newspaper clippings on microfilm relevant to the order's philanthropic efforts in the past. Kyle exits the database and signals to Charles to scrub the whole thing clean before setting up the microfilm reader and getting to work. He spends the next four hours exhaustively going through the materials provided until he's told the library will be closing and he needs to leave. Satisfied with what he's found, Kyle departs and calls up Charles.
"Great timing," The inventor answers the phone, "We've got a lead on our missing theater proprietor. The man we're looking for is Kurt Westwood, but there's a bit of a hitch - he's way outside of your suit's flight range. You could ride on top of one of the trains though, or a truck, hitch a ride out to where he's located."
"Copy, I'll come out to the nest and get suited up, make sure the suit's GPS is ready when I arrive."
"How did your research go?" Charles asks as Kyle hails a cab.
"I'll let you know when I get there," The vigilante responds.
Back at the Hawk's Nest, Charles helps Kyle get outfitted for the long journey out to the rural countryside of New Troy, almost a hundred miles out from the city. The trip was worth it, though, if they could get a positive ID on Ollie's real name. As they strap the outer armor onto Kyle's arms and legs, the inventor grumbles impatiently.
"Well, don't keep me in suspense, kid," He demands, "What did you find out?"
"The Jenkins Crime Ring are definitely being hunted by someone with a connection to the Order of St. Berchard," Kyle confirms, "They've got an interesting history. While nowadays they're a charitable organization, they weren't always so. Anyhow, my mom worked with them a lot in the 80s and the 90s before she got sick and the drugs took hold of her. Orphanages, food drives, the whole shebang. They tend not to put their name explicitly on things, but they do have a monastery upriver from the city, about five miles north. I think that's my next stop to find out more about the murders."
"And the symbol?" Charles asks.
Kyle makes a face as he grabs his helmet, "That's… That's a weird one. Most Catholic orders have like… A holy symbol, or their saint, as their mascot or brand, I guess you could say. St. Berchard however was an iconoclast and hated the idea of having a charm of a saint or other religious symbolism getting in the way of worshiping God, so his followers focus on 'pure' devotion. Their symbol evokes the seventeen tenets of Berchard's philosophy, which is why it looks so bizarre…" He draws up an image of the symbol, an esoteric arrangement of lines and shapes that he only now began to understand. "Each one is its own duty or core tenet that the followers must uphold, and they're arranged in how they intersect or support each other. It's all real strange."
"And what were they before they were giving blankets to the l'il kiddies and running soup kitchens?" Charles askes skeptically.
Kyle chuckles, "Berchard himself got his start as a priest in 12th century France, helping to run purges of heretics. An inquisition. Midnight raids, burning people at the stake, torture, interrogation, forced confessions… He was a real piece of work before they made him a saint."
"So what, we've got a crazed priest on a quest of righteous murder, wandering the streets looking for damned souls?" The inventor laughs, "Kinda like a schlocky B-movie."
"I dunno, the killings are pretty targeted. I think there has to be a connection with Moreau's disappearance. I don't think the guy would go AWOL to kill some ex-cons he helped put away. Seems a little… I dunno, off-target."
The two men contemplate this silently for a moment before Kyle reaches for his helmet and fits it on, strapping it tightly while Charles checks the seals with the neck fabric. "I'm going to hit up Effie's office before I head out to Dewsbury," Nighthawk adds, his voice rasping as it comes through the suit's modulator, "Tell her what I found."
"That's really not a good idea, kid," Charles frowns, "You'd have better luck hitting a hornets' nest with a baseball bat and a broken leg."
"She deserves to know, and she deserves to hear it from me straight… Besides, I need to tell her it wasn't me who killed those men."
"Bad idea, Kyle! Very bad idea! Don't do it!" Greyburn says repeatedly, jabbing a finger at Nighthawk. The vigilante walks away to the launchpad, extending his wings and activating the repulsor jets.
"I'll see you when I get back!" Nighthawk responds, launching into the night sky, leaving his partner behind swearing angrily.
Detective Effie Solomon tiredly rubs her eyes in the dimly lit environment of her office, which she was sure she was going to lose if the report she was writing didn't pass muster with her superiors. Her encounters with the Nighthawk since December were under extremely close scrutiny now that he was wanted for the murder of six men, along with the testimony and evidence she provided for the Arthur Richmond investigation. She would be lucky if she only lost the office, they could demote her, or even fire her… And she doubted that she would be getting a parachute to land in some cushy suburban precinct like some misbehaving cops she knew.
"Thinking deep thoughts, detective?" A growl emanates from above her, causing the detective to launch backwards into her chair, her hand going to her holster and stopping short when she sees who spoke to her. The Nighthawk looms in the shadows, his fiery orange lenses glaring down at her.
"..." Effie stares at him in shock before lurching forward, "Are you outta your goddamn mind?" She whispers, looking past him at the closed door to her office, "If anybody sees you, I am done! Done! Do you understand that?!"
Nighthawk stares at her for a moment before extending a claw towards her, "I didn't kill those men."
"I don't care! Your weapon, it fits your MO to a certain extent, the mayor is hellbent on us bringing your ass in for interrogation," She grits her teeth, "And if you're caught here, I could be fired, or arrested as an accomplice. This isn't a game, man."
"You really think they would target you just to bring some manner of justice to my actions?"
"They already are! Do you have any idea the pressure I'm under? Half of them want me to arrest you personally, the other half want to use me to capture you themselves. You're a wanted man, Nighthawk, and that does actually mean something. We got along just fine without vigilantes or flying aliens running around this city."
"...Like I said, I didn't do it… I'm working to clear my name," He says quietly.
"If you didn't, who did?"
Nighthawk pauses, "I've got some theories on that."
"Care to share?" She demands.
"Not yet, not ready. Still got to turn over some rocks," He mutters, "Speaking of, I have good news. Made some breakthroughs in the Dollface and Jenkins murder cases."
"Are you even listening to me, Nighthawk, we can't-"
He slams a hand down on her desk, interrupting her by leaning in close, "Listen to me." He notes quietly how her hand had gone back to her gun, her brown eyes locked on him coldly as he looms over her. A bead of sweat travels down her temple as they stare each other down.
"I should have a positive ID tonight on the Dollface Killer," He mutters carefully, "And I've discovered what the symbol in the Jenkins murders means… It's the symbol of the Order of St. Berchard, a Catholic philanthropic organization. They have a monastery a few miles north of the city."
"H-how did you figure that out-"
"Got lucky, right place at the right time," He cuts through her response, "Should pay the monastery a visit… See what turns up. I'll let you know the identity of the Dollface Killer as soon as I have it. Then we can coordinate our approach-"
"Stop!" She holds a hand out, "Just, stop. Stop. You need to get this through your feathered head, we're not a team. Especially not now. I've got a job to do, and that job is to throw your ass in jail until we can figure out if you did or did not kill those men."
"There are more important things-"
"Six men are dead, Nighthawk!"
"And twenty-seven men and women are dead in the cases I am investigating," He responds balefully, "While also clearing my name so that my testimony puts Arthur Richmond in jail, forever."
They lock eyes again for a few moments, testing each other's wills. Finally, the detective speaks, slowly, and carefully.
"I have a job, a duty to uphold," She informs him, "So you best believe that the next time you come by my office, you better have some solid evidence you were framed. I'll do you one better: You have twenty-four hours to bring me something, anything, to cast a reasonable doubt on the allegation. But if you can't do that, you should know that I'll be bringing you in on six charges of murder, you got me?"
Nighthawk sizes her up silently before responding, "You do what you have to do, detective. I've got my own work to do," He falls back into the shadows as she fixes her eyes on the door, hoping no one was outside.
"That's your job," He says quietly, "In case you were wondering."
She whirls around to spew profanity at him for the barbed comment, but all she finds is an empty, open window.
It was a two hour train ride to the nearest stop to Dewsbury, and another forty-five minutes of flying to reach the secluded two-story house where Kurt Westwood now lived.
"You're-Kzz-Etting out of-Kzzt-ang-Zzh-of our comms, I didn't-" Charles says through the radio, his voice cutting in and out entirely on the flight over until Nighthawk's suit shows no connection to the Hawk's Nest.
"Charles?" He asks, tapping his helmet, "Charles, do you read me?" After a few minutes of silence, he gets the sense he's on his own tonight. He had an idea of where his target location was too, which was good because the GPS wasn't working anymore either. Getting back would be a little difficult. He'd have to talk to Charles about getting a wider range of connectivity for the suit… Or he'd have to get accustomed not to having Charles in his ear anymore.
The house stood on a plot of land some eight or nine acres in size, sufficiently distanced from any neighbors. A single porch light was on at this late hour, moths and bugs buzzing around it. There was no garage, just an old Ford parked out front of the building.
Nighthawk lands nearby, his jets quietly cutting out and wings folding in the pack as he surveys the area. Nothing was coming up on night vision, thermal, or ultraviolet… Just some racoons and a possum about fifty or sixty yards away. He could distantly hear a dog barking, but it was no real threat to his stealth. Satisfied, Nighthawk approaches the house, circling it slowly and deliberately to scope out the place. Around back he could see into a den, where a TV was playing late-night reruns of old classic shows. An old man in a tank top and boxers snores on the couch, his dishes from dinner still on the table in front of him.
"Hm," Nighthawk thinks back to his encounter with Margaret Pell. He didn't want to terrorize the poor man, but he also wasn't sure how to best approach this in a manner that wasn't overly intimidating. He stares through the window, pondering the question, before sighing and walking around to the front door, picking the lock and opening it. He carefully pads through the house, making his way to the den, where he watches the old man sleep fitfully on the couch. He reaches down and grabs the remote, switching off the TV and bathing the room in darkness… Apart from the fiery orange glow of his goggles. He reaches up and dials back the glow to its lowest dimness.
"Mr. Westwood," He says gently.
The man stirs, "Hhn? Wha-?"
"Mr. Westwood, it's time to wake up," He adds.
"Wh-" The man bolts upright in the dark, looking around before locking onto the dim orange glow, "Wh-who, what are you?!" He cries out.
"I need your help, Mr. Westwood," Nighthawk says, reaching towards the lightswitch. "Close your eyes. Close them tight."
"What are you talking about- Ah!" He blinks aggressively, covering his face as the light flashes on to reveal the Nighthawk. As he adjusts to the brightness, his jaw drops. "I-i-it's y-you… I saw you o-on the news, you're the N-Nighthawk."
"I need your help, Mr. Westwood," Nighthawk repeats.
The old man stares at him uncomprehendingly, his mouth moving up and down as he tries to form the right words. The imposing specter standing in his den didn't move, didn't even twitch, just stood there like a statue. "With- with what?" He asks. The Nighthawk reaches for his belt, opening a pouch and removing a folded up piece of paper, which he hands to Westwood carefully. The old man takes the paper and carefully unfolds it, not taking his eyes off the intruder, but finally does look down at the pamphlet, his mouth twisting up in disgust.
"Th-this?" He frowns, looking up at Nighthawk, "Y-you want my help with this?"
"Do you remember what happened that night…?" Nighthawk asks, "Do you remember Ollie and Mr. Charlie?"
"Well I-" He frowns, "Of course I do, that was one of the worst nights of my career, but I'm- I'm confused, what do you need help with-"
"What was his name?"
"...What?" Westwood asks.
"Ollie. The ventriloquist. What was his name?"
"Mister Nighthawk sir, it's- it's been twenty-six years since this show went on-"
"Do you have the records?" Nighthawk presses, "A contract? Bill of sale, anything that would have his name on it?"
"Why do you need to know?" Westwood asks.
"Look at the date," Nighthawk points at the pamphlet, "June 25th, 1980. A year before the first Dollface killing. Your 'Ollie' is the Dollface killer. Whatever demons drove him to create Mr. Charlie are driving him to murder once a year, every year, commemorating the day his act bombed on stage."
A growing feeling of trepidation seizes Westwood's chest as he looks with new eyes at the piece of paper in his hands. "I uh…" He stands, walking over to slip on some shoes, "Come with me." He grabs a keyring from the kitchen and leads Nighthawk outside and round the side of the house to a cellar door, unlocking it and swinging it open. Nighthawk removes a flashlight from his belt, clicking it on and helping the old man descend into the musty space. Cobwebs and dust cover almost every surface down here, but Westwood resolutely pushes through the grime, leading Nighthawk over to a corner stacked high with boxes.
"It'd be in here," The old proprietor tells the vigilante while squishing a scuttling spider under his shoe. Nighthawk's fiery eyes lock onto the stacks of boxes and he moves forward like a starving man faced with a banquet, pulling the boxes down and looking over them for any sort of categorization or distinction… Thankfully there was some rhyme or reason to them, and even though mildew is crawling over the boxes and their contents, the papers are still in good enough condition to use. Westwood rubs his hands together anxiously before going back upstairs, returning with candles and a matchbook. He lights them one by one, setting them out so the room is illuminated properly, and joins Nighthawk on his knees, opening boxes and pulling out the contents as they look for the stage contract that Ollie signed that fateful day in 1980.
After twenty minutes of searching, Nighthawk finally brings up a contract jotted out in June that year, and searching over it he finds the name, signed in ink: Oliver S. Norton, with little smiley faces for the o's and dotting the i.
"...Got you," Nighthawk hisses, touching his goggles to snap a picture and then handing it to Westwood. He pulls a card from his belt and hands that over to the old man as well. "This is for Detective Efigenia Solomon, Cosmopolis PD," He explains, "You call her, you tell her what you found. Keep the pamphlet, give it to her too. The pamphlet, the contract, and you tell her you think Oliver is the Dollface Killer. She'll know what to do."
Westwood nods, stumbling over his words as the vigilante rises to his feet and bounds up and out of the cellar, extending his wings with a simple hand gesture and launching upwards as the repulsor jets come online. He rockets through the air, leveling out and going full burn back to Cosmopolis at full speed. He wasn't going to wait on a train, he wasn't going to take it easy on the suit, he had to get back to Cosmopolis as soon as possible. When the suit finally reconnected to the signal back in the city, he turned on the radio immediately.
"Charles!" He barks, "Charles, this is Nighthawk! Do you read me? Charles!"
After a moment, the inventor comes online, sounding a little flustered, "Yeah, yeah I hear you, what is it?!"
"We've got him," Nighthawk says triumphantly, "We've got the Dollface Killer. Run a search on Oliver S. Norton, forward the results to my suit."
"Kid, it's going to take a little bit to pull the data," Charles protests, "You'll be back long before we get the results, so just take it easy, okay?"
Nighthawk grits his teeth, "There's gotta be a way to juice the speed on that, Charles."
"There is, but that would take longer than you want," He sighs, "Just focus on getting back here."
"Alright… I've got Westwood reaching out to Effie as well, so she'll know to be looking for Oliver."
"It'll take them a while to confirm that it is him," Charles warns, "After twenty-four years, they're not going to make an accusation unless they're absolutely sure."
"Well, they've got less than two weeks," Nighthawk growls, "Better be quick."
"Hey, you better not be thinking about flying all the way back from there," Charles warns. When Nighthawk doesn't immediately respond, he reiterates, "I'm serious, you'll fry the jets and fall out of the sky like a lead goddamn balloon, you get back to the station and ride the train back. The suit just isn't ready for long distance flights like that!"
Nighthawk swears angrily, but relents, banking towards the train station and lowering the intense speed of the suit. He'd get back to his city, one way or another… And Oliver Norton would soon learn to fear the justice of the Nighthawk.
The Old Gemwood Chancery on the north end of Cosmopolis had been built in 1755, renovated in 1818, and then given significant gutting and rebuilding in 1938 as part of a New Deal job-creation project. Still, in the sixty-eight years since its second renovation, the building was again beginning to show the signs of its age. No longer used as a civil courthouse, it had passed from owner to owner who hadn't quite known what to make of the old building. Sometimes office space, sometimes a museum, now vacant and crawling with homeless vagrants. Dusk Panorama had decided it was a good canvas, having tagged the surface with all colors magenta, acid green, and electric blue.
The Angel of Vengeance approaches this fallen place of justice, following the footsteps of a particularly evasive sinner by the name of Abraham Hogan. He was from this part of town, he'd grown up here, born at the hospital just sixteen blocks south of the Chancery. He knew it well, and figured this would be the place to lay low after hearing about the deaths of Zach Jenkins and Allen Trey. But no one, no one, could escape the Lord's Vengeance. The angel's green poncho billows in the wind as a late night rain begins to fall, showering the area with a chill. He presses onwards, marching up the steps past two men warming themselves by a fire in a steel drum, and he opens the door, entering into the foyer. Here, men and women who had broken contracts, betrayed oaths, and committed all kinds of fraud and falsehood were brought to a form of justice that was lower than he'd like, but still effective in its own way.
He passes by the stairs, instead going further inside and opening the way to the courtroom. It'd been changed in many ways, with no place of judgment, no lines of pews for people to watch justice be done. Now those who dwell here are those who have nowhere else to dwell. Men, women, even children in grubby, smelly clothes, sleeping in stained sleeping bags. Some eat, some talk, but they pay little heed to the angel until he reaches into his old poncho and withdraws the glittering sword of St. Berchard.
"Hiding in the walls…" He mutters, stepping over sleep forms to reach the wall, and slamming the pommel of his sword against it with a heavy thud. The sound echoes through the walls, but it's muted. He takes a few steps further and repeats the action. And again. And again. Finally, a hollow ringing answers his strike, and without hesitation he twirls the sword in one hand and drives it through the drywall, carving away at it until an opening big enough for him to pass through is enters into a hidden corridor, dripping with rainwater leaking through, and follows it to a staircase leading beneath the courtroom.
Each step down the stairs creaks and shudders, the building settling beneath his weight as he follows intuition like a divine flare. Even in this dark, fetid hole, he sees clearly, brightly, illuminated. His sword practically pulses with holy light. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and walks forward slowly until he enters a room where a single person is sitting beside a blue-tinged lamplight, eating from a bag of trail mix.
"Hey," Abe looks up, seeing the stranger, "Get the hell outta here man, I don't want any of you filthy assholes down… Here…" His gaze travels down to the man's sword, which the angel obligingly rotates to afford him a better view. Angels weeping tears of blood into their chalices, waiting for Abe to help fill up their cup.
"Sh-shit," The ex-con stumbles to his feet, "Who the hell are you, I don't want any trouble-" He pulls up his shirt, revealing a pistol, "And you don't want any of this."
"Abraham," The angel speaks, "God has a message for you."
"Wh- What the hell are you talking about-" He begins to pull the pistol from his waistband.
"Tonight, I am taking you from your city, your people, from your household," The angel says softly, advancing towards Abe. Each footfall thuds ominously. "I will make you a ruin, and I will curse you. I will make your name wretched, and you will be a curse. I will bless those who curse you, and whoever blesses you I will curse… And all the peoples of the earth will spit on your grave."
"Man, what the f-" Abe cannot finish the curse before the angel lunges forward. The fugitive squeezes the trigger once, twice, but the angel sidesteps the gunshots with preternatural speed, the blade flashing in the dim light, separating hand from arm.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Abe falls to the ground, screaming in pain and clutching his dismembered arm as the hand, still clutching the gun, falls to the ground. "AHH SWEET JESUS HELP ME, HELP ME PLEASE GOD, OH PLEASE GOD HELP ME KILL THIS BASTARD- GHHK!"
"Do not-" The angel interrupts him coldly with a muddy boot to the throat, "Take the Lord's name in vain." The scent of blood is thick in the air as Abe gurgles for breath, his bloodstained hand slipping and unable to grip the man's boot. "But he is not without mercy, Abraham. He pours out his wrath and his mercy in equal measures upon the just and the unjust, each according to his deeds."
"Hhk! HHHK-" Abe struggles, feeling faint as blood trickles from the stump on his right arm.
"God, the origin of rage and compassion, through the spilling of blood and the suffering of flesh, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the spirits of heaven among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God grant you pardon… And peace," He raises the sword, pointing the tip down towards Abe's eye. The man's choked screams of terror resonate around him, an ineffable harmony with a choir invisible.
"And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and in the name of the Son, and in the name of the Holy Spirit. Amen-" And with one swift motion, he drives the sword of St. Berchard through Abe's eye, his brain, his skull, and into the wall. The man stills, only twitching, his mouth opening and closing automatically. Blood drips from his eye socket in thick ribbons of red.
"An eye for an eye, Abraham," The angel snarls, "Through the holy mysteries of our redemption, may Almighty God release you from all punishments in this life and in the life to come." He withdraws the blade with a wet sound, Abe's body slumping over as he releases his boot from the man's throat. The angel reaches down, dipping his fingers in the man's blood… And after considering the sanguine fluid on his fingertips for a moment, the angel reaches out to draw the seal of St. Berchard on the wall, to mark the passing of Abraham Hogan into the hellfire he so richly deserves.