John Dorazio watched silently as the recovery team removed the body from the river. November had been a mild month as far as the weather went, and the puffer jacket adorned with the emblem of the Chicago Police Department on the left shoulder, and the flag of the state of Illinois on the right, was open at his neck. The men of the 19th District, at least those in uniform who had chosen to wear the CPD regulation turtleneck under their uniforms and vests, barely needed jackets at all. But John knew that the weather in Chicago was, to quote Honore de Balzac, as fickle as love, so like most residents of The Windy City he kept a go bag in his car in the event he ended up stuck in two feet of snow on the Kennedy.
He had seen a lot of bodies in his twenty plus years with the Chicago Police Department, and as corpses went this one was somewhere in the 4 to 6 range. It didn't look like he (it was definitely he, given the facial hair) had been in the water that long, so he was still in one piece. Captain Dorazio wouldn't normally take an interest, except for the fact that this guy was the third in a series of guys (so far there were no women) that they had fished out of the Chicago River. John Doe number 2022-11 would be this guy's name tag in the morgue if he ran true to recent form, but the number wasn't an interesting detail, though the city was on pace to break it's record of unidentified bodies by the end of the year. What would be of interest to the task force set up by Commissioner Gordon himself, the man who had personally chosen John to lead that task force, was whether John Doe number 2022-11 showed the same signs of torture as John Doe number 2022-4 and John Doe number 2022-07.
"Looks like another one," Detective Meghana Chander said a short time later as she was still approaching the head of the task force to which she was currently assigned, her slim shape lost somewhere inside the oversized jump suit she was wearing.
"Cuts and burns?" John Dorazio asked as he sipped from his cooling Styrofoam cup of coffee.
Why do these fucking zippers only go up? Meg Chander thought as she struggled with the small metal tab that held her prisoner while also answering her superior. "Cuts, burn, missing teeth, missing ear."
John's eyebrows went up. "Huh. That's new."
Meg was still working her way out it the white Tyvek suit as she replied. "Trying new things, maybe? Or it's the work of a different person?"
Three men tortured and garrotted. The first two had not looked like pillars of society. Even the brief view that John got of John Doe number 2022-11 led him to the conclusion that they weren't looking at a dead banker. "Can't be a different person, unless they're working as a team. How many torturers/murders can we have running around and dumping men in the river at the same time?"
The look on Detective Second Grade Chander's face was hard to decipher as she fought with the thin material that still clung to her wrists and ankles. "In Chicago? More than one I'd bet."
John Doe number 2022-11 was disappearing into the white van that would take him to the morgue where he would be fingerprinted, scanned, and photographed before he was opened up to have all his organs weighed, his stomach contents checked, and his blood analyzed.
John Dorazio took in a deep breath before slowly letting it out. This was turning into a Thing. He could feel it in his bones. Bodies were going to keep turning up until someone put a stop to it. And putting a stop to this sort of Thing was exactly why John Dorazio became a cop.
He just wished John Doe number 2022-11 had waited a few days to turn up.
"I was hoping for a quiet Thanksgiving."
Detective Lieutenant Julianna Dudek closed the door to the small office that was located on the second floor of the long building at 850 Addison Street. The buildings across the street from the home of CPD District 19 were all apartments, the brick structures dating back one-hundred years when a three floor walk up was all that was considered practical. Parts of the Lake View District had transformed considerably in those one-hundred years, but one need only travel a few blocks west (and ignore the cars that lines both sides of the street) to be transported back in time.
"How's it going?" she asked the dark skinned woman who was about an inch shorter, and seven years younger, than she was. By virtue of their respective heritages (Poznań by way of Portage Park for the elder, Hyderabad by way of Montclare for the younger) the two detectives looked nothing alike.
"Same as the last two," Meg replied, "except this one is missing an ear. Nothing on him. Maybe IAFIS will have more luck than with either of the last two."
Julianna Dudek was not part of the task force investigating the dead men, the task force that had robbed her of Meg Chander, one of Lt. Dudek's most skilled detectives. But she hated an unsolved mystery as much as Meghana Vijay Chander did. "No fucking way these three are so clean that one of them doesn't pop up in IAFIS. Right?" she asked as she shook her head in bewilderment, her hands on her hips as she stared at the two 8x10 photographs that she was not supposed to have. There would soon be a third illicit snapshot, once Meg had a chance to pull the photo from her phone and send it to a printer.
Meg's only reply was to let her hands drop to her sides as she shrugged her shoulders.
"Some help you are," Lt. Dudek said. "What's Dorazio got you doing?"
She knew John Dorazio. Anyone who had been with the CPD for any amount of time knew him, at least by reputation. A list of commendations as long as Julianna's arm, a significant number of them for bravery, including one Superintendent's Award of Valor and three Blue Stars. Officer Julianna Dudek had been on the job for four years when Lieutenant John Dorazio had received the second of those stars. It was the first time she had drawn her side arm in the line of duty. The first time she had shot at someone, or been shot at. The first time she had seen men die, the first time she had had to make the call that all cops feared and hated.
"CODE 30, OFFICER DOWN REQUIRE IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE!" Julianna Dudek shouted into her radio as she rushed to the side of her wounded colleague.
"Fuck," John said as he sat with his back to the brick wall that was marked by the high velocity projectile that had entered, and then exited, his left side, " fuck, fuck, fuck."
"Put pressure on it!" Julianna said in not quite a scream as she knelt beside him, but only barely missing that mark.
"Dudek," Lt. Dorazio said through clenched teeth, both his hands pressed against his side.
"Loo?"
"You didn't call in our location."
"Shit."
She could close her eyes and call every detail of that day back to life with crystal clarity. Lt. Dorazio's face a mask of pain, the blank looks on the two dead men's faces (no thanks to her, it had been Dorazio who had accounted for them), the feeling of sheer terror that continued to course through her veins until the EMS finally arrived to an alley choked with sector cars and men in blue, the stains on her pants from kneeling in John Dorazio's blood, talking to him and keeping him conscious until help arrived.
These days his life was just a bit less exciting, a bit less dangerous. Or maybe not. She knew that he was currently serving as the Commissioner's bloodhound. Not his official title, but everyone knew that when Commissioner Gordon had something special that needed doing, he gave it to John Dorazio.
"We're checking all the shelters and the homeless camps, seeing if anyone recognizes them. So far, nothing."
"In Chicago? You'll be at it 'til Christmas. If you're lucky."
"Until we catch a break there's not much we can do."
The two women stood in silence for almost a minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Julianna Dudek was the one who finally broke the silence.
"Something's not adding up. If they're local we should have files on them. Fingerprints. Photos."
"If they're local," Meg answered. "What if they're not? But why would three not local skels show up in our fair city only to turn up tortured and dead in the river?"
"They wouldn't."
The phone on Veronica's desk had barely rung before she answered it.
"ASA Lance's office."
"Hey, babe, is she available?"
Veronica had no trouble recognizing the voice of Ruth Cawfield, assistant to Police Commissioner James Gordon.
"For you, sweetie, always," she replied before placing the call on hold.
She was in her bosses office less than ten seconds later. "Commissioner's office on 1."
Laurel Lance's eyes went momentarily to the bare feet of the woman standing in her office door before moving up to look at a pair of brown eyes that were looking back.
"What?" Veronica Lombardo asked, "you said I didn't have to wear heels all day."
Assistant State's Attorney Laurel Lance's head bobbed slightly in disbelief. "Was there not something in my statement that made it clear that I still expected you to wear shoes?"
Veronica took a moment, but only to give the false appearance that she was considering her answer before responding. "Nope."
Laurel was about to respond when a thought occurred to her.
"Call Kendra and she when I can get in."
It was now Veronica's head bobbing in disbelief. "I can't believe you pay somebody good money to walk on your back."
"It's called Chavutti Thirumal Massage, and she doesn't walk on my back. OK, she does walk on my back. But..its...just make the appointment, OK?"
Veronica's hands came up in mock surrender. "Fine," she said before stepping out of Laurel's office only to immediately step back in. "Does this mean I have to put my shoes back on?"
"Oh, for fuck sake," Laurel said before picking up the phone on her desk and pressing the button labeled 1.
"Commissioner, what a pleasant surprise," Laurel said.
"Counselor, nice to hear your voice again. Especially when it's not screaming at me about somebody blowing up Navy Pier."
"You know, if you keep bringing that up every time we talk it's going to lose its effect."
"True, but in this case there's actually a connection."
"I thought they already fished that guy's body out of the lake. What else was left unresolved?"
"Not that kind of connection. You remember John Dorazio, don't you?"
"The officer in charge of the men protecting Annelie Bodin. Sure, I remember him."
"He's leading a task force looking into who is torturing men and then dumping them into the river."
"How many bodies are we talking about?"
"Three. For now. John thinks it's going to turn into a Thing."
"So he's expecting more."
"Do you have any investigators available for the task force?"
"No, we're swamped. What is it you need help investigating?"
"Neither of the first two guys showed up in IAFIS. We don't expect the third guy to either. We need someone to do some digging. Anything we can find on them."
Laurel considered her response for approximately five seconds before she spoke. "You can send me whatever you have on them, and I'll see what I can do. How official does my help need to be?"
It was now James Gordon's turn to take a few seconds to speak. He knew that Laurel Lance, and occasionally her sister Sara, whenever she was in town for an extended stay, worked high end private security for former CPD Detective Renee Montoya's company Paragon Security Services. Commissioner Gordon was still very much in the dark about her (and her sister's) activities when they operated under the nom de guerre The Canaries. What he did know about Paragon was that they were not an investigative service.
"What do you mean?"
"I know somebody who knows somebody. They're the ones who figured out who was behind the whole Annelie Bodin kidnapping Thing."
"I thought that was a Situation."
"Whatever. But they're off the books, and they have an unreasonable expectation that they will be paid for their work."
"So, they're not from around here."
"Not so much."
"What is it?" Barbara asked as she sat across from the man that she called Dad. If she tried very hard she could almost recall a time that she still called him Uncle Jim, unless those were false memories; and it was a pointless exercise anyway. He was her father, full stop. He was also her boss, and anyone who thought she got the job because of her family connections could go fuck themselves. Mostly. She did, in point of fact, owe her job to her family connections, once her father had discovered her alter ego, and her connection to a couple of other individuals in Gotham who also had alter egos who prowled the city after hours, their faced hidden by a mask, or cowl, or whatever someone chose to call it.
James Gordon was staring at his kale salad, at least his face was pointed towards it. His mind was elsewhere, but he redirected both at his daughter after her voice brought him back to the hear and now.
"Nothing." James answered as he picked up his fork and started to poke at the shreds of green leaves covered in peanut vinaigrette, "They fished another one out of the river this morning. John's got his people on it."
She didn't need to ask another one of what? She knew what was being pulled out of the Chicago River. And she knew why it bothered her father as much as it did.
Chicago, The Windy City, Second City, Gotham. The city had many names. The City of Violence, her friend Sang-Hee called it, though her explanation as to why ran a bit long and both of them had been seriously under the influence at the time. But she couldn't argue with her. Barbara Gordon lived in a violent city. That violence was the main reason that her alter ego existed. Her's. Kate's. Bruce's. Too many others to name. There is a purpose behind each act of violence, at least that was her opinion. Or rather, Batgirl's opinion. Barbara Gordon was technically a stranger to violence, officially speaking at least. So there was a purpose to these bodies showing up the way they were, in the condition they were in. Otherwise why not just stuff them in the trunk of a car and bury them downstate?
"That's what, four?" she asked as she picked up her diet iced tea.
James Gordon gave up the fight and dropped his fork into the middle of his mostly unfinished lunch. Salad 1, Commissioner 0. "Three. Still not a lot to go on. I asked the SA's office for help but they're already under water. No investigators to spare."
Barbara knew the magnitude of the train wreck that was the Cook County budget. She wasn't surprised that the State's Attorney's office was understaffed, but still. "Not even for a serial killer?"
A combination shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders accompanied his reply. "We don't know what it is yet. Everything about these three guys says they should have records, but it's like they're ghosts. Nothing, Nada, Zilch."
"Covered operatives? DEA, maybe?"
"Huh. Never thought of that. Maybe."
"Maybe ask Justice? I know someone who knows someone. They might have a contact in the Bureau."
"ASA Lance is giving me a name. Someone who can do some leg work. I wonder if they have any connections in DC."
"Who's she giving you?"
"Do you know someone named Jessica Jones?"