Nightwing

It was small comfort that at least they hadn’t put the leg chains on him this time, Lester Buchinsky thought as he was escorted, dripping wet, down the narrow corridor. He’d never mastered the alleged art of trying to walk with his legs chained together, like some sort of bizarre sack race. He never really got dry in the rapid jail shower, either, so his bright orange clothes always clung to him, making him even more uncomfortable. Not that one really expected to be all that comfortable while being led to a jail cell, but you gotta cling to something, right?

The ceilings always seemed about thirty feet high in a jail, even though it was one story. The aisle between cells, by contrast, was about four feet wide, creating a striking illusion, at least in the prisoner’s mind, that the walls were literally closing in. Very claustrophobic.

These are the things Lester Buchinsky thought about as he was being led to his jail cell following his fourth arrest.

“Move it along, Les.” The guard to his left pushed him forward lightly. “You know the drill.” Lester said nothing, his eyes staring straight ahead, wondering at what his life had become. His arrest was totally unjust, he knew, just like the others. How could he ever make anyone see?

Brian. His brother. He had no idea what had happened to his brother after the confrontation with Nightwing. Brian didn’t know Nightwing like Les did, and Les had been too busy to explain the situation to him. Brian probably thought Nightwing was some sort of mob enforcer, sent by Rocco Gialdi to collect his marker. Les had felt Brian was relatively safe at his apartment, but who knew where he might be now. Les didn’t even know how to contact him.

“Hey!” The guard’s prod was a bit more forceful this time, and Les realized he’d stopped in the aisle. “Quitcher daydreaming, Les! Get your head out of the clouds!”

Les spun his head toward the guard, giving him an angry snarl. The guard showed no fear, only irritation. “Don’t make me do anything,” a cruel grin crossed Les’ lips, “shocking.”

“You’re cracking me up, pun-boy. Now move it..”

It was at that moment that all the lights went out. Instinctively, the guards went for their guns, causing their grip on Les’ elbows to lighten. Before they realized their mistake, he twisted his arms free and dove onto the floor. A sweeping leg kick knocked out Left Guard just as he drew his gun, tripping him to the floor and sending his gun clattering away. Les scrambled for the gun as Right Guard fired wildly into the dark. Les felt the floor chip as the bullet imbedded about six inches from his head. Another shot was father off the mark.

Les grabbed Left Guard’s gun and fired wildly. He wasn’t sure if he’d hit anything. Prisoners were screaming, and in the pitch darkness it was impossible to hear over the cacophony. Les raced back in the direction he’d come in, hoping against hope to find a way out of the jail.

“Stop firing, dammit!” yelled Left Guard to his partner. His eyes were starting to adjust to the dark. He could barely make out the sound of a door closing in the distance. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to direct Right Guard. “He went that way.” Pointing toward the front door, then realizing Right Guard couldn’t see him. Ignoring his addled partner, he started to head toward the exit.

Electric blue light flashed through the corridor. Left Guard’s body stiffened as electricity poured into him. He managed to scream, briefly, as he heard the crackle of his body being burned. His heart pounded in his chest. He looked for release, but found none. The last sensation he felt was his heart exploding.

The jail corridor went dark again. The cacophony, silent during the lightshow, returned in force.

Lester Buchinsky put his hands on his knees in an alley two blocks away, trying to work out the stitch in his gut. He couldn’t stop running now. The police would be after him soon. They’d think he caused the outage; they’d be pursuing him. He was a fugitive from justice, escaped on a technicality of epic proportions.

He wondered who’d caused the brownout, and why the cops weren’t chasing him anymore. Then he ran, as hard and fast as he could.

“-been reading Buchinsky’s file, and this looks like his handiwork.” said Amy Rohrbach as she knelt over Left Guard’s charred body, stifling the bile forming in her throat. “Certainly fits his m.o.” The stench of burnt flesh was overpowering.

Inspector Angela Shay seemed unfazed by the carcass’ odor. She stood three feet away from where Rohrbach was kneeling, the picture of composure in her high heels and tight business suit. “I don’t know.” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Didn’t these morons stripsearch Buchinsky when they brought him in?”

Amy glanced at the miniature legal pad in her right hand briefly. “According to interviews with the surviving guards, yes.”

“Then how would Buchinsky have been able to electrocute someone? He’s not a meta, is he?”

“Not according to his file. Maybe the guards weren’t thorough, and he managed to slip something in.”

Shay put her hands on her hips impatiently. “If that turns out to be true, heads will roll around here. We do not need something like this happening so soon after the bombing at Crosswhite. Get a preliminary report on my desk by tomorrow morning, Detective.”

Amy nodded, and Shay started to walk away. Then she stopped, and turned back to face Amy and the corpse. “By the way, where’s your partner today?” She licked her lips as she used the word “partner.” Amy tried to avoid rolling her eyes as she answered.

“-don’t really need..”

“Yes you do. Dammit Grayson!”

“No, seriously.”

“I swear I’m going to kill you. And that’s not hyperbole. I am actually going to bring about the end of your life.”

“But I’m not an invalid.”

“There will be a funeral. With a minister. (Preferably one who doesn’t explode or anything.)”

“Will you stop babying me?”

“There will be a singer. Do you know anyone who should sing? Do we know any singers?”

Dick Grayson pushed away the bowl of chicken soup like a petulant child, a scowl adorning his face. He hadn’t even known there was any chicken soup in his apartment. Suddenly a confused look crossed his face. “You know what, Babs? We don’t know any singers. That’s kind of sad. We need to meet some singers.”

Barbara Gordon was pleased she finally had her patient’s attention. “We’ll just have to get Bruce to sing. I hear he’s terrific. Now eat your soup.”

Grudgingly, Dick took the bowl and spoon from his fiancée, arranged the bowl on his lap, and took a sip. “I’m telling him you said that. He’ll send Batgirl over here to kick your tail. Then you’ll be sorry.”

Babs smiled. “You’ve got to be the worst patient ever, Boy Powerline. How many volts are going to have to get pumped into you before you take it easy for a few days?”

The headache was finally receding from the latest attack, but Dick was still a little woozy from his run-in with The Electrocutioner. And before that, he’d been woozy after a confrontation with another laser-beam powered bad guy. “I get it; I get it.” he protested, nearly knocking over his soup as he raised his arms in mock surrender. “It looks like we’re done for the moment. Buchinsky is in a room with bars by now. I need to run down the other guy that was there with him, but that can probably wait.” He slanted his eyes at Babs. “I’m all yours, mi amor.”

Babs rolled her eyes. “Thanks. You can barely move, you dope. You’re no good for what I had in mind.” Dick again flashed his best Tom Cruise grin, raising an eyebrow playfully. Babs chuckled.

“So anyway,” he finally said, his serious face returning. “What do you think of the new apartment?”

“I like it.” she said, looking around. “It’s a nice little bachelor pad. I like the wheelchair ramp, too.” Dick grinned; he’d insisted the ramp be included in the renovation. “By the way,” her expression turned serious, “we need to talk about our living arrangements after the wedding.”

“You don’t want to live here?”

“Well.. no offense, but no, Grayson. It’s too small, for one thing. There’s nowhere for all my.. you know.. sneaky Oracle equipment.”

“But I can’t move all the way to the Clocktower, Babs. I work in Bludhaven.”

Babs threw up her hands in mock surrender. “I know; I know, Grayson. I’d never dream of pulling you out of this little paradise you’ve got down here. But how would you feel,” she grinned, “about a house in the suburbs outside of town?”

Dick stopped, totally caught off guard. “You mean like with a white picket fence and a dog?”

Babs nodded. “We can even name her Ace.”

“And maybe get him a mask?”

“Let’s not go nuts. She’d hate wearing a mask. That’s just ridiculous.”

Just then Dick’s pager beeped. Babs retrieved it. “Amy.” she said, handing Dick the phone. He dialed Amy’s number and spoke with her for a few moments. He had a dour expression when he hung up, and Babs sighed, knowing what was coming.

“I’ve got to go.” he said, forcing himself out of bed.

Brian had slept in the janitor’s closet of Les’ apartment building. He hadn’t taken any money or identification with him when he’d hurriedly escaped the apartment, so he had no way to rent a hotel room or otherwise get any money. He’d tried a collect call to his ex-wife, but she wouldn’t accept the charges. He’d doubled back to Les’ apartment, hoping the coast would be clear, only to find police tape strewn across the entrance and Les nowhere in sight. So he’d huddled in the janitor’s closet to stay warm, hoping that he wouldn’t be discovered.

Now he had a massive crick in his neck, and his fitful sleep had done nothing to soothe his jangling nerves. Brian was certain the costumed attacker worked for Rocco Gialdi and had come for him. Even if Les had been successful in saving him this time, Gialdi wouldn’t give up. He’d just send one hitman after another, each failure increasing his ire, until Brian was dead. Eventually someone would succeed. Brian was a dead man.

Brian managed to find a soup kitchen and get a hot meal. The broth was poor quality, but it tasted like heaven sliding down his throat, leaving a warm feeling everywhere it touched. Sustenance helped him regain his composure somewhat. There was a way out of this. He had to pay his debt. If he paid off Gialdi, the parade of hitmen would end. He could resume his life. There had to be some way to get the money.

Almost idly, Brian wondered where Les was.

Then he remembered Les’ costume. The Electrocutioner gear. With the outfit, he’d be able to get money. Probably through illegal means, but it was a gold mine waiting to be tapped. Had to be. Brian wondered why Les had never made any money with the outfit, decided Les must not be using it correctly.

Come to think of it, why hadn’t Les offered to use the outfit to get Brian some money, rather than locking him away in a dingy apartment? If he was any kind of brother, surely he’d see that Brian was in need and help him out, right?

Surely he wouldn’t mind if Brian.. borrowed the equipment. Brian would return it when he was finished. Maybe.

Interlude:

Olivia Ortega did her best not to trip in her high heels as she hurriedly scuttled over to the skinny man leaving the office park. “Sam. Sam!” she called, waving an arm in the air to get his attention.

Sam Drier wasn’t happy to see her. Since he’d started his job in the office of the Clerk of Court six months ago, the headstrong reporter had become his shadow. He rolled his eyes as she approached.

“That’s a lovely tie you have on, Sam.”

“Geez, Olivia, what do you want? It’s cold; I want to get to my car.”

“I’ll walk with you.” She caught stride with him. “I was wondering what you could tell me about the Plika filing this afternoon.”

“Plika? Oh no, I knew you media types were gonna be all over this. Look, we can’t have this conversation.”

Olivia stopped and grabbed Sam by the arm, bringing him to a halt. “Sam. We can play this game where you refuse to give me info, I badger you about it, you weigh your principles, act all conflicted, and then give in. Or you can just tell me how much it’s going to take to get the scoop.” Looking away from Sam, Olivia reached into her purse.

Sam’s cheeks flushed. He thought of his Mastercard bill. “Fifty.” Olivia handed him two twenties and a ten almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Sam looked around, then regarded Olivia conspiratorially. His voice dropped to a whisper. “This is all off the record?”

“Not off the record.” corrected Olivia. “But I won’t name my source.”

“Okay. That’s what I meant. Plika is one of the four people..”

“Four?” Olivia had only known of two.

“Four. Claiming to be Roland Desmond’s heir. Apparently Desmond’s insurance company has issued denials of all the claims, claiming there’s no proof of death. Technically, the insurance company is right, because Desmond hasn’t been missing for very long. But Plika’s lawyers are arguing that a presumption of death was created by the explosion at Crosswhite, and that the Court should declare Desmond dead and make the insurance company pay.”

“What about the other claimants? Are they filing?”

“Not yet, but they’ll be added to the Plika suit. The insurance company will do it when it files an Answer.”

“So we’re headed for a legal battle over Desmond’s life insurance?”

“Looks that way. Remember – you didn’t hear it from me.”

End Interlude

“So you’re thinking Buchinsky fried this guard and escaped?” asked Babs. Dick was in his unmarked car, having just left the station.

“I guess.” he answered in a non-committal manner. “I don’t know how, though. He was stripsearched when he entered the lockup. I took all the electric gear off of him when I finished with him. How could he have had that equipment?

“Plus, this just doesn’t feel right. Remember, we were after Buchinsky for killing Randall Urskin. Isn’t it a little too obvious, if Buchinsky was the perp, that he just went home and waited in his apartment? Did he think we wouldn’t suspect him when we found some guy electrocuted?”

“Remember, Dick, Les isn’t the brightest bulb.”

“I know. He’s a borderline idiot.”

A memory flashed through Babs’ brain. “Hey waitaminute. What about the other Electrocutioner?”

“What other one? The dead guy?”

“No, not the dead guy. Buchinsky is the third Electrocutioner, Dick. The original was killed by The Vigilante several years back. But there was another one – in between the original and Buchinsky. He was a mob enforcer who worked in Gotham. Our favorite pointy-eared opera star busted him awhile back, and he went to prison.”

Babs furiously clicked keystrokes on her laptop, cut off from her larger system in Bludhaven. “Arrest records listed him as a John Doe. Dick, he’s out. He was released four months ago. Could he be the guy you’re looking for?”

Dick pulled over his car to think. “Maybe. He is unaccounted for. Was his m.o. similar to Buchinsky’s?”

“Oh yes. Very similar.”

“Then the question becomes – what is John Doe’s agenda? Assuming for the sake of argument that he killed Urskin, does it also make sense that he was behind Buchinsky’s escape?”

“Maybe he’s working for the same people that employ Lester.”

“Maybe. But Les really isn’t that far up the food chain around here. I don’t think his bosses would be rushing to spring him if he got busted. Especially if they’ve got a ready replacement.

“Dammit, I hate this feeling. It’s like I’m totally in the dark again.”

“Easy, sport.” reassured Babs. “Let me see what I can dig up on John Doe.”

“Any word yet on Buchinsky?” Chrysler Guy’s voice was even more irritating on the phone than in person. “My employer is somewhat anxious, especially given the incident at the jail.”

John Doe nearly spat into the phone. “I did the best I could at the jail. Those idiot guards didn’t bind Buchinsky’s feet like they were supposed to. If they’d done their jobs, I could’ve done mine. But they didn’t, so he managed to get away.”

“And the guard?”

“Unfortunate, but I needed a distraction. A smoking corpse gave me one. Don’t worry – everyone assumes Buchinsky killed him too (even though that really doesn’t make any sense).”

“Any idea where Buchinsky got to?”

“I’m looking. He can’t have gotten too far. He was on foot, in a jail uniform. His hands were handcuffed together. And his apartment was covered with cops – there’s no way he’d have gone back there.”

“As you know, my employers are not the most patient..”

“Your employers? You mean the OAKNINES!?!”

“You shouldn’t say that name over a phone line.”

“Screw you. The OAKNINES hired me to do a job. It’ll get done. The OAKNINES need to relax a little and let me do what I do.”

“…. Keep me posted.” Guy hung up without a formal goodbye. John Doe didn’t mind. I’d love to fry that little worm next, he thought as he got back to work. Buchinsky was at large, and the hunt was on.

To Brian’s surprise, the crime scene tape had been removed from Les’ apartment. The police must have finished their work, he thought as he entered using his key. His first trip had been to Les’ closet. But the Electrocutioner equipment had been gone, undoubtedly confiscated by the police. Brian’s heart had momentarily sunk, until he thought of the spare. He knew Les kept a spare; he’d told him about it.

Sure enough, in a locked chest in the closet, Brian found the spare. Lucky Les had also told him where the key was hidden. The cops probably moved on once they got the main suit.

He’d carefully stowed the equipment in a booksack, grabbed his wallet and a few personal effects, and left quietly. Now he sat in a coffee shop, plotting his next move.

His first thought was to just run into a bank in costume and demand money. Then he realized the guards would probably just shoot him if he did that. Was Les’ costume bulletproof? He wasn’t sure, and that was a hell of a field test.

No, he needed to be more subtle, play to his – or the equipment’s – strengths.

As if on cue, he watched an armored car pull up to the bank across the street. The driver emerged from the front seat, went around the side, and unlocked the back. Two armed guards climbed out from the back of the truck. The three men went about the business of moving inventory into the bank.

All that money.

A sly grin crossed Brian’s lips. Eureka!

Brian didn’t notice Amy Rohrbach watching him from two tables away.

It had taken him hours to get out of the handcuffs, and ultimately he’d had to dislocate his thumb to do it. He’d hotwired a parked car, and driven across town to clear his thoughts. On the way, Lester Buchinsky listened to the radio, as news account relayed the story of his “daring escape” and murder of a guard. What was going on? What was going on? He didn’t know, and was more concerned with staying alive than finding out.

Returning to his apartment was a no-no. The cops might still be there, and in any event they’d be looking for him there after the escape. But he needed his equipment. It gave him power, and it would help him stay alive.

His lawyer! Chrysler Guy had represented him after his last arrest. He’d delivered one of his suits and taser sets to Guy for safekeeping, trying to use attorney/ client privilege to keep it out of the police’s hands. And as far as he knew, he’d succeeded. The suit and taser would still be in the safe at Guy’s office.

Using the carphone, Lester dialed Guy’s number. His voicemail picked up. Same thing with the home number, which he got from information. He knew Guy had a mobile, but had no idea what the number was. Dammit.

He needed the suit, and he needed it tonight. Lester hurriedly left a message for Guy at the office, then headed over there.

Chrysler Guy loved Chinese takeout. He liked nothing better than popping out to the Cherry House for General Tso’s Chicken and Crab Rangoon, then returning to the office to work late and eat.

He’d gone out tonight, and struggled to keep track of everything in his hands while he made his way back into the office.

Guy dropped his keys and food on his desk, then wandered off in search of napkins. Cherry House never remembered to give him any.

He didn’t notice the red light flashing on his phone, indicating he had a new voice mail message.

To Be Continued...

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