Nightwing

Even though the position of ‘Chief of Police’ was supposed to be administrative in nature, Bludhaven’s Chief Redhorn found himself in ‘action’ more than he’d really care to admit. Frankly, although he loved the game, he sometimes wished he could just fish, drink beer and get fat all day long.

Other times, like the present, when he was the target of random gunfire, he was glad he stayed in shape.

Redhorn knocked Olivia Ortega, microphone and all, to the ground as he ducked for cover. In the aftermath of a horrific tragedy in his city, someone was trying to kill him - in the middle of an interview no less! Someone was trying to kill him on live television! “Stay down!” Redhorn barked at Ortega. For her part, Olivia had dropped her mike and curled into the fetal position, her hands covering her head as best she could. Redhorn struggled to try and get a sense of the shots’ origin. One of the bullets had come close enough for him to feel, but it was impossible in that brief instant to tell which direction it originated from. He felt like a sitting duck.

Fortunately for Redhorn, the disaster site was crawling with uniformed officers. At the sound of gunfire, several of them sprinted toward the Chief, their weapons drawn. Redhorn wondered if the uniforms were setting themselves up to be victims of the next round, but they arrived unscathed, one covering the Chief while the others tried to get Ortega and her cameraman out of harm’s way. For now, the gunfire had receded.

For now, thought Redhorn. He shuddered involuntarily as he realized he had just become a marked man.

“What do you know good, Man Wonder?”

“It’s a mess, Babs,” replied Nightwing into his headset. It was the night after the Redhorn shooting. Dick Grayson had just gone off duty after a day of participating in the dual investigations into the explosion at Crosswhite Memorial and the attempt on Redhorn. “You go first.”

“All right,” replied Babs, seemingly in full Oracle mode. “I’ve been digging on the bombing. You may know some of this already. BPD has identified Janet Connor as the trigger woman for the bomb, based primarily on the fact that she was seemingly located in Desmond’s room at the time of the blast. Placing anyone in a particular room, given the force of the blast, is at best an inexact science, but you boys on the BPD seem confident. Have you seen the ME’s report on Connor’s body?”

“Sure. Nothing of note.”

“That’s because you saw the edited version. The ME created two reports. I retrieved the original from his hard drive.” Dick didn’t ask how Babs could have pulled off that feat. “In the original version, the ME reported that Connor had been shot as well as blown up. Stopped short of identifying the shooting as the cause of death, but it makes sense, don’t you think, that she would have been shot before being blown up rather than after.”

“Could he tell whether the shooting was recent? Could have been an old wound.”

“He believed recent. I don’t need to tell you what this suggests - Connor wasn’t working alone, or wasn’t involved at all. There was someone else in Desmond’s room who shot her.”

Nightwing nodded. “But no one else has been identified as a conspirator. Meaning, either they haven’t found him/her yet, or…”

“He/she was gone before the explosion. Meaning Blockbuster may have been gone too.” Having been targeted for death in the past by Roland Desmond, Oracle never took him too lightly. She hoped Nightwing remembered the same lesson. “Any guesses why the ME altered the report?”

“I assume someone got to her.” Caroline Grady had been Bludhaven’s ME for twenty-six years. In his limited dealings with her, Nightwing had never gotten the impression she was dirty, but it was exceedingly difficult to survive twenty-six years in Bludhaven without being dirty. Immediately Nightwing tried to fathom who would gain from an alteration of the report. Clearly someone wanted the public to believe that Janet Connor acted alone in the bombing. If someone was covering up evidence to the contrary, it stood to reason that there was a co-conspirator.

All of which made it more likely that Blockbuster hadn’t been in the hospital when it exploded.

“OK bright eyes. Your turn. Dish,” came Babs’ voice over his earpiece.

“Well, we’re more or less drawing a blank on the Redhorn attempt, so far at least. Shotgun pellets were recovered from the scene and matching shotgun shells were found several hundred yards away, behind some tree cover. Nothing exotic about the ammo. Footprints, but nothing unusual. No witnesses so far, but we’re still checking. The bombing site is such a madhouse it’s really hard to tell who was there or when. In the chaos immediately following the shooting, lord knows how many people ran off. So even if we find a witness somehow, they may not be all that reliable.

“Of course there’s about a zillion people who’d love to see Redhorn dead, so narrowing the list is daunting. I’m thinking the only way we’re going to solve this one is if someone rats out the shooter, or shooters.”

“This all comes back to Blockbuster, doesn’t it?”

“Yup. With Rolly AWOL, there’s no need for anyone to listen to Redhorn anymore. He’s lost his moral authority to lead, such as it was. The other families are jockeying for control. My guess is, one of them decided to send a message, either to Redhorn or to everyone, that the Chief is no longer the Chief as far as they’re concerned.”

“So who stands to gain?”

“Everyone. You know about my recent experience with the Indrale family. They’re old school Bludhaven, probably resented Redhorn anyway.” Nightwing had recently gotten a who’s-who tour of the Bludhaven underworld from a retiring gangster. “Then there’s the Scarpattis, who were allegedly behind the gunplay on I-60 a few weeks back. So they were making noise even before the explosion.

“I haven’t had any dealings with the Oaknine family, but from what I understand they’re not native. Don’t know what their angle would be, but they’re out there.”

“Let’s not forget,” reminded Babs, “Redhorn’s own ‘family’, the BPD. Any subordinates who’d like to whack him?”

Nightwing thought for a moment. “Thing is, Babs, lots of the old school cops are off the board. That’s why Amy and I got promoted. Redhorn’s been running low on crooked cops.”

“Mac Arnot?”

“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in weeks. The new second-in-command seems to be Officer Shay.”

“What’s he like?”

“Not he, her. Seems nice. She’s really the one running the investigations. I dunno, I guess she could be dirty, but I haven’t seen any evidence of it yet.”

Babs grunted. Anyone who had Redhorn’s ear had to be suspect. “So anyway, dear, we still on to meet the cake lady tomorrow?”

Angela Shay was very annoyed with her ‘boss’. Redhorn was supposed to be a powerful man, but increasingly he was acting like a wimp. Since the attempt on his life, he’d gone to pieces. He was paranoid of everyone and everything, locking himself in a windowless office, then switching to one with windows so he’d have an escape route if someone knocked down the door. Shay had no patience with weakness.

Her arrangement with Redhorn had been working beautifully. It had been remarkably easy to get into his pants, and once that was accomplished, she could manipulate him however she wished. Shay was second-in-command, but she really felt as if she was running the BPD. Certainly she had become the department’s public face, as Redhorn had realized the wisdom of having her primarily handle the media. He’d only ventured out to the scene of the bombing on one occasion, and look where it had gotten him.

Momentarily, Shay realized that if Redhorn’s present course held, he would soon be out of power. That could open the door for her to become the new Chief. Although the lure of power was tempting, Shay didn’t want the position. After all, she was already in charge, even if no one knew it. Power without responsibility was a wonderful combination, and she had no desire to upset the balance she’d reached.

Meaning, Angela had to keep Redhorn from self-destructing. By any means necessary.

As expected, the attempt on Redhorn was merely the first round of the mob upheaval. Over the next week, the chaos grew.

On Saturday, Miles ‘Mickey’ Scarbino saw his fiefdom come to an end. Scarbino worked for the Oaknine family as a lieutenant. Although several of his subordinates had been associated with the Scarpattis in the pre-Blockbuster days, none had ever questioned Scarbino’s authority, even though Scarbino was a recent import from Metropolis. On Saturday evening, however, Scarbino found himself ambushed by four of his subordinates, all with Scarpatti connections. Scarbino did not live to relay the tale. The message was clear: outsiders would not be tolerated in positions of power.

On Sunday, the Coiffed Gill, a popular seafood restaurant, was the victim of a drive-by shooting that left four patrons and a waiter dead, and several more injured. The Gill was owned by Daugo Meekins, who was connected to the Indrale crime family. There were no immediate leads as to the identity of the shooters, but BPD theorized that the attack was mob-related. Meekins, for his part, insisted it must have been the work of gang members or bored teenagers, and fiercely resisted any efforts to tie the attack to the mob. This was hardly surprising since Meekins himself was dirty, but further impeded attempts to solve the crime. Those in the know figured the attack was either the work of the Scarpattis or the Oaknines.

On Tuesday, two low-level Scarpatti soldiers were killed in a hotel room outside of town. One of the two was murdered while on the toilet; the other was shot execution-style. Both had their right pinkies removed. Although some speculation focused on the Oaknines, conventional wisdom held that the Indrales were avenging the attack on the Coiffed Gill. Speculation had run rampant throughout the underworld that the Indrales were weak, and that a power struggle existed between Walter Indrale and his supposedly-retired father Frank. The attacks confirmed that the Indrales were still in business. However, the relatively minor nature of the retaliation, compared to the vicious assault on the Gill, suggested that the family was not operating at full strength.

Amy Rohrbach was as frustrated as Dick could remember seeing her. A veteran officer, Amy did not often lose her cool. But she had reacted very badly to the bombing at Crosswhite, and the events that followed had done nothing to quell her ire. Dick tried to find the right words as she stormed through her office, pacing like a caged rat.

“This is insane!” she ranted. “It’s open warfare on the streets. We’ve got restaurants being shot up, people being executed. Total chaos. And we don’t have any clue what any of it means.”

Dick was seated in a chair opposite Amy’s vacant desk. Unopened boxes littered the office; Amy hadn’t had a chance to unpack since her promotion. Truth was, Dick was every bit as frustrated as Amy, but he realized he needed a clear head to function.

He measured his words carefully. “We do have some knowledge, just not all we need.” Amy turned to face him, exasperated. Dick held up a hand. “Clearly this is mob war. The families are jockeying for position. They’re trying to gain power in the new landscape.”

“Well, that’s nice, Grayson,” chirped Amy. “But it doesn’t help us solve any of these crimes. We can’t very well go arrest ‘the mob’. You know what bugs me the most? We’re not even a factor here, Grayson. These guys are going around committing crimes - heinous crimes - with no fear of the law whatsoever. It doesn’t even register to these guys that they could get caught, because they know it won’t happen. We’re supposed to protect the people of this city, and we can’t do it.”

In large part, Dick agreed with Amy. The feeling that there was no law in Bludhaven was a large factor in his decision to join the force in the first place. He could totally understand Amy’s feelings of impotence and helplessness. He started to console her with some platitude about how they couldn’t be everywhere, and how they needed to just concentrate on doing their jobs and hope for change in the long-term, but Dick knew the sentiment would be hollow. He felt he owed Amy more than an empty platitude, so he kept his mouth shut as she ranted. Dick knew that Amy would eventually look past her frustration and resume her work.

Amy’s rant was interrupted, however, as Officer Shay stuck her head in the door. “Rohrbach? We may have a lead in the Coiffed Gill thing. Possible witness. Would you be so kind?”

Amy was already grabbing her coat. “On my way.”

“Any other leads I can follow up?” asked Dick.

Shay looked him over like a lamb chop, her eyes running up and down his body. Dick felt uncomfortable and flattered at the same time. “Nothing pressing,” she finally answered. “But you’re a detective now, Grayson. We don’t always give you leads, sometimes you’ve got to go find them.” Then she was gone.

Dick was mildly embarrassed. He wasn’t exactly burning the department up in his first week as a detective, and now Shay probably thought he was an idiot. Dick knew, in all modesty, that he was one of the best detectives around, and possibly one of the best in the world, but he wasn’t yet used to operating in the BPD’s more formal structure. Growing up he’d just grab a case and run with it, follow a hunch, do whatever he felt needed to be done to solve a case. As a cop, in addition to legal niceties, Dick was still learning to cope with procedure and protocol.

Nuts to that, he thought. It’s time to get a handle on this situation.

Shay noted Redhorn was still locked in his office. She’d thought of trying to ply him out with sex, but had abandoned that idea. The thought of sex with the cowering Redhorn wasn’t all that appealing at the moment. Instead, Shay popped into her office to prepare for the three television interviews she had scheduled for the following day.

Shay was annoyed, but not surprised, to find Lady Vic seated casually in her office. “You’re living dangerously,” remarked Shay to her costumed guest as she closed her door.

Lady Vic was unfazed. “No one saw me come in. Just like always. I think it’s time for us to touch base.”

“Didn’t we just do that?”

“Two weeks ago. Time for another checkup.”

“If you’ve been doing your job, and watching my back, you probably know as much as I do already.”

“Maybe. But you know the deal, Angie. Enlighten me.”

Shay smirked. “Don’t call me Angie, Vicky.” Then she began her report.

As it turned out, the alleged witness in the Gill case had been solid. A middle-aged man had been seated in the diner across the street from the Gill, and had happened to catch the make and model of the vehicle containing the shooters. He was certain the vehicle was a Buick Lesabre, dark colored, but he wasn’t sure of the color since it was dark. A quick check of BPD’s records confirmed a navy blue 1999 Buick Lasabre was reported stolen two weeks before the shooting.

Amy forced herself to press on despite the leaden feeling in her gut. Snap out of it, she kept telling herself, you’re a veteran cop. You don’t need to be running around dripping with angst like some cockeyed teenager mooning a lost love. But try as she might, Amy couldn’t shake the doubt knowing at her insides. Next to her husband and son, cleaning up Bludhaven was the most important thing in her life. Being promoted to detective should have placed her a step closer to realizing that dream, or at least being in a position to make a real difference. Instead, the city had been hit with a series of disasters in her first week. She knew the attacks weren’t her fault, that there was nothing she could have done to prevent them. But she felt as if she ought to have been able to do something, and her inability was, in a cruel way, a testament to her lack of importance, her lack of power.

Amy had grown quite fond of Dick Grayson during their brief time working together, but sometimes he really got on her nerves. It was nothing Dick did intentionally, just that he seemed so unflappable. He never seemed to really get down, even in the face of adversity. Admirable, maybe, but also annoying to normal human beings who, every now and again, liked to admit human frailty. Oh well, she thought. He means well.

Plugging on with her investigation, Amy read the officer’s brief report on the stolen vehicle. She noted the license plate, HGF-1324, and decided to conduct a second interview with the registered owner, a young man named Greg Martin. Martin seemed pleased that Amy was taking the time for a second interview, noting the original investigation had been inadequate. Amy agreed, having reviewed the report, but knew that hundreds of crimes in Bludhaven each year got similar treatment, whether due to lack of manpower or interest.

Martin happened to note that he’d recently broken up with a woman who had some gang connections. Nothing serious, he assured Amy, but he thought that maybe the gang might have stolen his car as retaliation. Amy learned thereafter that the girlfriend was in county lockup, having been busted for dealing ecstasy. The girlfriend was all too happy to confess to her part in the car theft in exchange for a deal on the X charge. Turns out she also knew what she and her boyfriend had done with the car. They’d sold it to a man named ‘Liman’ a few days after the theft. She didn’t know Liman’s last name, but knew he operated a ‘used-car lot’ outside of town. “And if you see him, see if uh…my stuff’s still in the car,” she’d added as Amy left.

Deciding for the moment to shun backup, Amy traveled to Liman’s lot, where she discovered a newly-painted lime green 1999 Buick Lesabre. Certain she was on the right track, Amy confronted ‘Liman’, who reluctantly revealed that he had ‘loaned’ the car out between Saturday and Monday, in exchange for Amy’s promise not to arrest him. The vehicle was loaned to a guy named Sammy Dinkins. Bingo, Amy thought. Time to pay a visit to Dinkins.

Nightwing’s investigation had also led him to Dinkins, where he stood perched outside Dinkins’ apartment, a ramshackle tenement that had hopefully seen better days. A view through binoculars had confirmed five people inside Dinkins’ apartment, one definitely armed, maybe more. He was getting ready to go in when he saw Amy arrive in her unmarked.

Dammit, he thought. She’s too good a cop to screw this up by going in alone. Even a rookie’d know to call for backup. But Amy was acting like someone with something to prove. He should go in, he thought, and take the hoods out before she arrived. But somehow that felt wrong. Amy was not some damsel in distress who needed constant rescuing. She just needed a gentle nudge back to her senses.

Amy had her piece drawn, ready to go in. She knew in her head she should call for help, or at least radio in her position. There would probably be hell to pay if her actions became known. But something in her heart told her to ignore her veteran’s instinct, just this once.

“Amy? I’ve been trying to page you all night!”

Amy spun to see Dick Grayson, smiling like a goof. He held his pager up, as if confirming for Amy its existence. “I take it you’re here for the same reason I am?”

“You’re here for Dinkins, too? We’ve been doing parallel work? That doesn’t make much sense.”

“No,” said Dick, his tone suddenly resolute. “It doesn’t.”

Amy looked at her feet. “Look…Dick, I’m…”

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. I understand.” She tried to keep from crying as he returned to attention. “Now what say we go bust some bad guys?”

Without a warrant, they had to proceed with caution. They couldn’t enter the apartment without being invited. They got lucky. As they were heading up the stairs, a fight broke out in the apartment. Just as Amy went to knock on the door, it splintered, and an overweight man in a stained t-shirt came flying out the door. As he lapsed into unconsciousness, a voice from inside the apartment declared, “I’m gonna fuckin’ KILL you!!”

“Sounds like our cue,” grinned Dick.

He and Amy burst into the apartment, Amy’s gun drawn. “BPD!! Nobody move!!” barked Amy. As she expected, no one listened to her. One of the four remaining ‘tenants’ broke for the window. One went for a weapon. Two scrambled for cover.

Dick went for the would-be weaponeer, covering the distance between them in an instant. He knocked the gun from the perp’s hand and decked him with a roundhouse left.

Amy charged the window jumper, grabbing him by the seat of his pants and yanking him forcefully back into the apartment. The jumper matched the description she’d been given for Sammy Dinkins. As she pulled him into the apartment, Dinkins suddenly spun and tried to bite her. Briefly startled, Amy dropped her gun, but she didn’t need it. A knee to the face stopped Dinkins in his tracks.

Dick grabbed Amy’s gun and held it straight up in the air. “Anyone else want to resist arrest?” he asked defiantly.

Amy’s office was still a mess, but she was at last beginning the process of unpacking her things. Twelve hours had passed since the arrest of Sammy Dinkins. Dick grinned as he entered the office.

“Good news, Amy. Dinkins rolled over on the Gill hit. Claims he didn’t fire any shots, just drove the car. But he gave us some names. Uniforms are bringing them in. DA feels we’ve got a solid case to prosecute.”

Amy smiled a weary smile. “Good. Were you in the box with Dinkins?”

“I was there part of the time. Window dressing, mostly. They’re not quite trusting me to interview murder suspects yet. Soon, I guess.”

Amy nodded. “Soon.” She regarded Dick for a moment. “Dick…thank you.” She didn’t add, for keeping me from committing career suicide. For keeping me from maybe committing actual suicide. For helping give me a reason to go on. For not clocking me one when I was being neurotic. She didn’t need to say those things. They hung in the air anyway.

Dick grinned his Tom Cruise grin. “No sweat, partner. We all need a little kick in the shorts sometimes.”

“It’s corny, I know,” said Amy, “But I just…I feel like we can take this thing back. This city. So much has gone wrong in the last week plus, but we’re a factor. We’re going to crack this mob war. Even if it starts with something small, like busting Dinkins and his cohorts, the message is sent: you commit a crime in this town, you shoot up a restaurant, we’re coming for you. We may not get you every time, but we’ll get you some of the time and make your life hell the rest of the time.”

“These mobsters think Bludhaven belongs to them. They’re wrong. It belongs to us, and we’re going to take it back, piece by piece.”

Dick grinned again. “Onward then!” he exclaimed in his best campy melodramatic voice as Amy finally broke into laughter. “Once more into the breach…”

The End...

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