It was a dark, cold, rainy night in Gotham; nothing out of the ordinary. Regardless, nothing ever justified getting out of bed at such ungodly hours. Well, almost nothing. There had been reports of a murder on Park Row, a street that is more commonly known as Crime Alley, and with good reason: This was the very locale in which the Waynes were slain in cold blood, among many other horrendous crimes that are carried out on a daily basis. The scent of coffee filled the old Chevrolet, two fresh cups sitting in the holders in front of the console.

Driving along the street, Gordon saw several junkies along the sidewalks, curled up against the walls of second-rate apartment buildings not even they could afford to live in, cuddling under newspapers to try and keep warm. He saw at least three dealers hanging out in the shadows as he drove passed the alleys; as careful as they tried to appear, a sharp cop could always spot a dealer.

Riding in the car next to him was his partner, Arnold Flass. Jim hated Flass. He was crude, crooked, and altogether just unpleasant to be around. His jokes were always demeaning, being either racist, sexist (or both), or simply in bad taste. Altogether, Flass was just a walking, talking, oxygen-stealing sack of shit. "Hey Jimmy," he started, causing Jim to roll his eyes, "How many blacks' it take to change a tire?" Gordon wasn't going to dignify that with a response, and even if he were, he didn't have time to do so, having driven to the crime scene. He pressed the brakes just hard enough to send Flass jolting forward. Had he not caught himself with his hands, he would've hit his head on the dashboard, as he always neglected to wear his seatbelt. The thought alone made Jim smile.

"We're here," he said dryly.

Exiting the vehicle, the two detectives donned their parkas before stepping out into the dark alley of the crime scene. It was cold, and the pitter-patter of rainfall upon the plastic shielding drummed above their heads and on their persons. Standing next to the yellow crime scene tape barring the area from unauthorized personnel was one of the department's many beat cops; a younger man, probably in his late twenties. Poor guy had been standing here in the rain for a while, without a parka. The department-issued jackets were warm, but they still got soaked if one spent too much time in the rain. Jim walked up to the officer with a stern look across his jaded face.

"What do you have for me, son?" he asked. The officer turned to look into the dark alleyway behind him. "I found this guy while on patrol. Wouldn't have known he was here if I hadn't caught a bum takin' his shoes from 'im. Haven't even been able to take a good look at 'im myself, what with having to stave off the scavs." He spoke with a very particular Boston accent, one Flass would undoubtedly pick at later. Brushing the beat cop aside, Flass stepped under the yellow tape. "Let's have a look-see, Jimmy. Probably just some wino caught a bad break."

Gordon let out a sigh of exhaustion, following behind Flass as he entered the crime scene. The detectives' flashlights beamed toward the body in unison, illuminating the blood-and-rain-soaked ground. The victim was lying on his stomach, his hands outstretched as if trying to crawl away before he could bleed to death. Unfortunately, death won him over. He was wearing a brown tweed suit, a matching briefcase laying on the ground a few feet behind him. His blond hair was drenched, his own blood having been run through it as well.

"Well, he don't look like no wino, at least," Flass remarked with a chuckle. Gordon cast a sideways glance, his patience with Flass wearing thin. Gordon knelt down, producing a pair of latex gloves from his pockets and quickly pulling them on, snapping them onto his wrist to ensure they fit snugly. With his hands protected, he was able to flip the body and examine the man. His chest was riddled with stab wounds to the point of evisceration. His chest cavity was open, turned to mush by the multitude of inflictions. It was a gruesome sight indeed, and Gordon wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not even on-

"Oh my God..." he trailed off, a mixture of shock and a tiny hint of guilty relief lining his voice. "What is it Jimmy? What's goin'-" Flass stopped short too, his words failing him. He was unable to speak for a good few moments, which honestly satisfied Gordon. However, it was never easy to see the dead body of a fellow officer; Jacob Jules, one of Flass' friends. He, along with Flass and the rest of his cronies, were on Commissioner Loeb's special payroll. They were all crooked, doing deals with the mob on the regular, turning a blind eye to their efforts for a cut of the cash.

"Flass?" Jim said. It took a minute, but finally, Flass was able to vocalize his feelings. "We need to find out who did this, Jimmy! We need to find out who did it, and put a bullet in 'em!"
"We'll figure it out Flass. But we can't go out on a rampage and-"
"The shit we can't! We're the goddamn police, and no one does this to one of our own!"

Gordon dismissed Flass' outburst. He was well aware of what he could, possibly would, do. Loeb would definitely want answers, or at least a scapegoat. But all they could do now is give the department an update on the case. "Call it in, Flass. I'll look around some more." With that, Flass walked away, radioing the station about the new turn of events as he did so.



Across the street, on the rooftop of one of the derelict buildings, he remained crouched, blending in to the early morning darkness that enveloped him. He caught everything through his long-range microphone, his night-vision lenses granting him a clear picture of the scene below. One of Loeb's crooked cops, dead in the alley. He had made his way here after picking up the reports on the police scanner.

The Batman; an urban legend to most. However, a good number of criminals had felt his wrath in the two years he'd been active, and although some of the police would hate to admit it, he's helped put away a fair share of Gotham's scum. He'd fought drug dealers, rapists, murderers, robbers and mobsters. This would be another case, and he needed to be careful.

And whether they liked it or not, the Gotham City Police Department was going to be a big help to him in this investigation.

Zsasz crouched in the corner of the dingy room he had chosen as the site of his latest kill. Places like these were holy ground in Zsasz's eyes, particularly just before they were consummated with the blood of a poor, miserable walking corpse. Such occasions that required long waiting periods in a selected area allowed Zsasz to lull himself into a trance-like state, neither a state of unconsciousness nor wakefulness. Only a peaceful, wonderful state of nirvana. As close as Zsasz would ever get to perfection before his time to be guided out of the world of the living came.

A heavy steel door swung open carelessly, pulling Zsasz out of his long held state of meditation. He blinked, focusing his vision in a dim light, and looked to the figure that had just walked into the room. There he was. Henry Thompson. 5' 7", 145 pounds, dark skin, green eyes, black hair. Exactly the way he had always been, shambling about with an unshakable frown highlighting his expression. And now, gloriously oblivious to the fate he was about to meet. He leaned down and picked up the scrap of paper that had been left for him, scrutinizing it with narrowed eyes. The cue to move.

Zsasz crept from the dark corner he had crouched in for what might have been hours towards the man, blade in hand. His fingers twitched. His heart raced. His head buzzed with the drunkenness induced by the successful ambush. He had to bite back an overexcited cry as he finally stood up from behind Henry and grabbed him. One hand covered his mouth while an arm snaked around his torso and constricted. Henry froze for a moment, but began struggling and making an effort to scream before the minute had passed.

"Hush. Hush." Zsasz muttered into his ear. "You'll be safe soon. Sh..." Wrapping one of his legs around the man to keep him still, Zsasz brought his knife up to his neck, and pressed it through the soft tissue of the side. He gripped around his victim's mouth tighter to muffle the increasingly intense screams. Lovely as the sounds of death were, alerting any possible passers-by to this exchange could be inconvenient. Still, Zsasz drank in the view of Henry squirming as the life drained from his flesh. A smile crossed Zsasz's lips and he pressed his face against the back of Henry's neck, catching the scent of his skin mingling with fresh blood. The man's weight fell onto Zsasz as he ceased struggling. Zsasz moved his left hand down to Henry's chest to better his grip. For the first time since birth, this man was at peace, and no one else could be more perfect than he. The last thing he wanted to do was let go. But, as with all of the best things in life, such moments must come to an end, Zsasz supposed.

At last, Zsasz slowly brought his victim's corpse to the ground. He laid the body on its back, and moved the still pliable right arm so thatthe hand rested over the chest. The left hand still gripped the paper, but Zsasz felt no need to alter that. Satisfied, Zsasz stood up and looked over his work. A smile crossed his lips. Henry appeared as though he was sleeping, eyes closed and head lolled slightly to the side. Perhaps he was at last living in a beautiful dream, away from the horrors that infested his previous state of being. The idea warmed the pit of Zsasz's stomach like nothing else could. Aiding others in achieving such a perfect state had always been a rewarding practice.

Though he would have liked to stay just a while longer, Zsasz had business to attend to, and his skin was beginning to crawl at the lack of a new mark for Henry's memory. Best not to make the cut near the body. Always the capacity for mess, and Zsasz had no interest in desecrating the newly established sacred ground. Besides, there was no need to leave a trail for any nosy types who would not understand his ways and try to make him stop.

Lapping in one last view of Henry's corpse, Zsasz turned and strode out of the room. One more dead, far too many more to purge of the plague known as life. There was far too little time in the world, Victor concluded, far too little to allow every person in the world the freedom that they deserve. Still, it was good to be helping the few that he could.

Filling out paperwork was never the fun part of the job, but sometimes it was preferable to staring at dead bodies. They had called in the coroner to pick up Jules' body. The autopsy reports wouldn't be disclosed for quite some time. All Gordon could do until then was finish his report regarding the finding, and then try and make some phone calls. Murders weren't at all uncommon in Gotham, not by a long shot. But Jacob's body...Gordon had never seen anything like that. He had almost been reduced to gelatin with the wounds he'd sustained. It was sickening...

"Gordon! The commish' wants to see ya!" One of Loeb's thugs; a guy named Randall Fisk. He was a lowlife, like the rest of them. However, Gordon resigned to, much to his chagrin and with a heavy sigh, remove himself from his desk and pay a visit to the commissioner's office. The GCPD headquarters was quite spacious. Many desks filled the office, and the vaulted ceiling above was a stained-glass mural, highly decorative and very pleasing to the eye. The bronze busts adorning the columns that decorated the interior were polished to a shine, each of the some important figure of Gotham's past; men who lived long before Gotham was what it was today...

---

"What the hell do you mean you've got no trail?!" Loeb shouted. Gordon, taking a moment to wipe the fingerprints off the lenses of his glasses with his shirt, took in a deep breath and reiterated: "The killer is obviously either very good at cleaning up after himself, or cautious enough to not have to. We found nothing that could point us to a possible suspect." Donning his glasses once more, Gordon looked the police commissioner in the eye, as much as the action pained him.

Loeb let out a disgruntled chortle. "Look here, Gordon: Jules was one of the best officers in the department. The kinda man he was, he don't deserve what he got!" Loeb stated. 'I've no illusions as to the kind of man Jacob Jules was,' Gordon thought.
"Point is, Gordon, we've got a perp out there with the blood of one of the department's finest on their hands, and you're telling me you've got absolutely nothing to go on?"
Gordon didn't miss a beat. "Unless the autopsy shows us something we didn't know before, then no, Commissioner Loeb. We've got nothing. As I said, our killer was very thorough."

Loeb didn't appreciate this answer, and began eyeballing Flass, who was standing nearby. Suddenly, Loeb's face lifted into a mischievous smile, flashing disgusting yellow teeth. "Well Gordon, if you says there's nothing to go on, then I guess you must be right. I expect that report to be turned in posthaste." With that, the commissioner dismissed Gordon, who scowled as soon as his back was turned. He tried his damnedest not to slam the door.

Loeb's scowl returned, and he turned to look at Flass. "I want an arrest, Flass. If we can't get the guy responsible, then we'll just have to find an alternative. Understand?" Flass nodded, a sly smirk planted on his visage. "Good. Now get the hell out of my office."

---

Back at his desk, Gordon was a mess of anger, and he tried his best not to let everyone else see it. His pen presses were much harder, to the point where his pen tore through the paper. Slapping the writing utensil on the table, he looked around to see a multitude of faces around the department staring in his direction. He heaved an exasperated sigh, tossing the ruined report in the trash and printing off another form to start over with.

"Never gets any goddamn easier," he muttered.

"You know, you're going to give yourself high blood pressure? You'll be chasing down a perp and then a sudden heart attack." Officer Renee Montoya told Gordon, her right hand gripping the cuffs of a local pimp. "I heard it was a cop who got killed, is that true?" She asked.

"Good riddance. The only good cop is a dead cop." The pimp said, "Amen, brother." A rough looking biker said as he was being courted through towards the interrogation room. Renee smacked the pimp in the back of the head, her way of training him to keep quiet.

"Sorry about my girl, Jim. She doesn't know when to shut up." Renee joked, "Anyways, you got any leads? Any solid leads, I mean? It's not like Gotham isn't lacking in people who want to kill cops, have killed cops, or are planning to kill cops. Especially the ones who work for the fat man down the hall." Officer Montoya said.

Gordon looked up slowly to meet eyes with the source of welcomed dialogue. Renee Montoya was a good cop, and not just in the sense that she made arrests. She was good to people, understood them. She wasn't like one of Loeb's flunkies either that did what she wanted if it meant she got ahead. She was very much by the books, and a sight for sore eyes after the hell he'd been through today.

"Who's to say it already isn't?" he replied. Renee's appearance lifted his spirits quite a bit; especially her exchange with the pimp she now had in custody. Gordon suppressed a chuckle; it wouldn't be very professional for the lieutenant of the homicide division to be caught laughing at the "mistreatment" of suspects. It was always nice to have Montoya around.

Until, she asked about the early morning murder. Gordon sighed. "Yes, it's true. It was Jules, if you can believe it." There was a tinge of sarcasm in that statement, but only just enough that the pimp wouldn't get it. It was always to the benefit of the department if at least the illusion of cooperation and familial bonds was maintained. Otherwise, criminals all over Gotham would take advantage of the internal discourse; not them a select few of them didn't already, but they were ones Loeb was in bed with anyhow, so it hardly mattered.

"As far as leads go...nothing. Our killer was quite efficient at what he did. No hair or skin follicles, no prints, nothing. He either cleans up like a methhead in a disorganized bookstore, or just makes sure not to leave traces of himself behind. Either way-"

Gordon was cut off by the arrival of Flass, who strode over and leaned on Jim's desk. "We got another one, Jimmy. Same as Jules. Found the poor bastard in an apartment in Coventry." Flass took the opportunity to look Renee over. "How's it goin', Montoya?" he said, waggling his eyebrows. Jim stood up, donning his coat as he did so.

"Guess I can finish this report later, then. Come on Flass. And good to see you, Montoya." With that, the two detectives were off and out the door. "It's going to be a long day," Gordon said.

"You got that right, Jimmy. You got that damn right."

Standing in the dim light that illuminated the latest kill, the Batman loomed over the corpse that lay in the middle of the room. Scanning the area around the body gave him no new results, no trace elements of any substances. This was simple, cold, knife-edge murder. There were no remnants of foreign particles, no shreds of clothing, no follicles of hair. There was nary a thing to go on. Batman had performed a facial recognition scan on the deceased a minute ago, and was waiting for information from his databanks to come through on an identity.

The victim had a very prevalent entry wound in the side of his neck, having bled profusely from the puncture. Judging from the cleanliness of the wound, it seemed to be a slow incision, not forced or hurried. It was as if the killer took their time. It was truly a puzzler; the murderers Batman had dealt with so far had never been this careful.

Reaching down, Batman felt for the dead man's pockets. His keys, wallet, and phone were all there. The killer took nothing from the victim other than his life. It was strange to say the least. Finally, the analysis of the facial recognition scan came back, flashing into his HUD. "Henry Thompson. Says here he was a factory worker at Ace Chemicals until he was diagnosed with lung cancer..." He fell silent for a moment, contemplating.

"Alfred," he spoke into the comm. system in his suit, "Have there been any updates to the Jacob Jules murder earlier this morning?"
"It would seem a formal case report is still in order, sir," an aged British accent came through on the other end. "However, I did manage to procure the late detective's personnel file, which in turn led me to his medical records. It would seem that detective Jules was diagnosed with liver cancer some three months ago. Coincidence?"
"I'm not allowed to believe in coincidence, Alfred. But until I find out more, I can't be too certain. Hm?" Batman's attention was diverted as he looked over the body again.
"Something the matter, sir?" Alfred inquired.

Stooping down, the Batman pried open Henry's stiff, clenching fingers to reveal a blood-spattered scrap of paper. Picking it up, the detective saw a hastily-scribbled note which read "You're welcome." The Batman didn't react, and became aware of his silence as he studied the note. With the photographic optics software in his lenses, he was able to capture a still image of the note and upload it to the Batcomputer.

"Alfred, I need you to analyze this handwriting and see if there are any documented matches. I'm coming back to the Batcave; it's almost light out."
"Right away sir."

Placing the note back into Henry's hand, the Batman closed the cadaverous fingers around the slip of paper and stood, looking around the room one last time. He suspected the police would be here momentarily, as he picked up on the incident by intercepting a phone call made from a woman who now stood outside the building. Deciding to leave the way he came in, Batman grappled his way into the air vent above, following the path he had mapped out until he reached the outside.

In the alleyway next to the building, he pulled out, peeling down the street in a highly-customized vehicle dubbed the "Batmobile." As he drove, Alfred contacted him once more. "Sorry sir, but there seem to be no records of any handwriting matching the kind on the note you found."


"Well then, we're in for one hell of a ride, Alfred."