John Dorazio stood motionless as the recovery team hoisted the body from the river's murky depths. November had been a mild month so far. His CPD puffer jacket, the department emblem on one shoulder and the Illinois flag on the other, hung open at the neck. The uniformed officers of the 19th District who wore CPD regulation turtlenecks under their vests barely needed jackets. 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.

In over twenty years with the CPD, John had seen more than his share of corpses. This one was maybe a 4 or 5 on the scale—not too far gone. Male, judging by the facial hair. He hadn't been in the water long, so at least 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 2022-11 would be this guy's name tag in the morgue if he ran true to recent form, but the number wasn't the interesting detail. The city was on pace to break its record for unidentified bodies by year's end. What would be interesting to the task force set up by Commissioner Gordon was whether John Doe 2022-11 showed the same signs of torture as John Doe 2022-4 and John Doe 2022-07.

"Looks like another one," Detective Meghana Chander said a short time later. She approached the head of the task force to which she was currently assigned, her slim shape lost inside the oversized jumpsuit she was wearing.

"Cuts and burns?" John Dorazio asked as he sipped from his cooling Styrofoam cup of coffee.

Why do these zippers only go up? Meg Chander thought as she struggled with the small metal tab that refused to go down. It was still distracting her as she replied. "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. "Trying new things, maybe? Or it's the work of a different person?"

Three men tortured and garroted. The first two had not looked like pillars of society. Even the brief view that John got of John Doe 2022-11 convinced him that they weren't looking at a dead banker. "Not unless they're working as a team. How many nutjobs do we have dumping bodies in the river?"

Meg fought with the thin material that still clung to her wrists and ankles. "In Chicago? More than one I'd bet."

John Doe 2022-11 vanished into the white van that would take him to the morgue. There 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.

The morning sunlight filtered through a thin cloud layer as John took a deep breath. The air was still too warm too sting his lungs. And he was too far away from the body to catch the familiar scent of decay. He rubbed his face with a gloved hand.

Need a shave. And a vacation. Someplace warm. With no dead bodies.

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.

ANother fucking day in paradise.

John took another sip of his coffee and sighed. So much for a quiet Thanksgiving.

Meanwhile, across town, Lieutenant Julianna Dudek sat in her office and waited.

Detective Lieutenant Julianna Dudek closed the door to her small office. The second floor of the long building on Addison Street had been her workplace for going on five years. The buildings across the street from the home of CPD District 19 were all apartments. The brick structures dated back one-hundred years when a three floor walk up was the tallest 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 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 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 the other two."

Julianna Dudek was not part of the task force investigating the dead men. The assignment 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 way these three are that clean. One of them has to be in IAFIS." 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. The soft buzz of voices penetrated the walls around them. In days long past the staccato sounds of typewriters would have too. But typed reports were a thing of the past.

"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'd 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.

"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. The 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. The putrid smell of garbage from the nearby trash cans. The faces of people looking out their apartment windows. And their lack of sympathy.

Fucking pigs! someone had yelled, which had started a chorus of abuse.

These days his life was less exciting, less dangerous. Or maybe not. She knew that John 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, each lost in their own thoughts. Julianna Dudek voiced her thoughts.

"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 glanced at the bare feet of the woman standing in her office door. Her gaze moved up to a pair of brown eyes that looked 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 see 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?"

"Not that kind of connection. You remember John Dorazio, don't you?"

"The officer in charge of 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. If the third one doesn't either then we have a serious mystery. We need someone to do some digging. Anything we can find on them."

Laurel considered her response 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. Commissioner Gordon was still very much in the dark about her 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 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 get a high colonic. Mostly. She did, in point of fact, owe her job to her family connections. Her father had discovered her alter ego. And her connection to a couple of other individuals in Gotham. People who also had alter egos who prowled the city after hours, their faces hidden behind masks.

James Gordon was staring at his kale salad, at least his face was pointed towards it. His mind was elsewhere. But he redirected both to 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.

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 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. Hers. Kate's. Bruce's. Too many others to name. There is a purpose behind each act of violence. At least that was her opinion. Batgirl's opinion. Barbara Gordon was 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 fucking 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?"