Nightwing

Romeo Scarpatti knelt by his son’s gravesite, placing a single pink rose on the stone. He fought back the tears that always threatened to overwhelm him when he came here, each Tuesday afternoon. Silently, he mumbled a prayer for his lost Antonio.

Charles and Giovanni Scarpatti stood behind him, flanking him on either side. Their postures were erect, dark sunglasses covering their impassive faces, their dark trenchcoats blowing slightly in the cool breeze.

Stifling a tear, Romeo turned and looked back at his surviving sons, then glanced at their car waiting several hundred yards away. “Deidre couldn’t make it?”

Charles responded. “She said she had some business in the city. She said she’ll come out here later this week.”

Romeo nodded briefly, then looked back at the stone, still kneeling. “I suppose we all grieve in different ways.”

“Well Dad,” Giovanni offered. “You can’t really blame her for having mixed feelings about Antonio, given..”

“Enough!” Romeo angrily silenced his son. He stood up and wiped the dirt from his pants leg. “If you’re going to speak ill of the dead, son, at least have the courtesy to wait until you’re out of his presence.”

“I’m sorry, Dad.” replied a chastised Giovanni, his head bowed. “I meant no disrespect.”

Charles interjected. “Have you spoken with the police lately? Or any of our.. independent sources?”

Although it wasn’t expressly stated, Romeo knew Charles was inquiring about Antonio’s still-unsolved murder, wanting to know if there had been any new developments. Sadly, he shook his head. “I suspect the police have written it off by now. They usually want to solve crimes within a few days. And they probably viewed it as our people’s problem, not theirs.”

“Is that it, then?” Giovanni asked. “Do we just let it go?”

Again Charles shook his head. “No. No. We will not – EVER – let it go. No matter how long it takes, we.. I.. will find out who took Antonio from us. I will..” the steely resolve in his eyes was frightening. “I will find out who was responsible. And that person will wish they were never born.”

Chester Gasker could barely contain his enthusiasm. “I know who killed Antonio Scarpatti.” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the alley to hear him.

As he flipped a banana peel off its resting place on his leg, the enormity of his situation hit him. The murder of Antonio Scarpatti had been big news, very big. It had dominated local newscasts for at least a week. Then the coverage had petered out, and the press had moved onto something else.

Even through a haze of booze, Chester had been aware of the incident. When the story had faded, he’d assumed the mob had learned, on its own, the identity of the culprit, and handled the situation quietly. He’d never imagined the murder was really unsolved. And now to learn that not only was it unsolved, but that the killer was an insider – Scarpatti’s wife – was mind-blowing. He was sitting on a potential powder keg.

A potential powder keg.

Oh crap, he thought, sinking into a seated position against a wall. I know who killed Antonio Scarpatti. Maybe, he thought, he should just pretend he hadn’t heard anything at all, go on about his business and forget it. The knowledge could cost him a lot of trouble.

On the other hand, there had to be a way to make money off of this information. Had to be. What he had was a valuable commodity. Information was power, and now he had a way to buy his way into the game.

So who would he sell the info to? Couldn’t be the cops – one, they’d probably never believe him; two, there were probably still warrants out for his arrest, since he was technically an escaped convict; and three – the cops weren’t usually very keen on paying for information.

This Marksman fellow? He seemed immune to blackmail. And he’d probably just shoot Chester.

That left two options Chester could discern. Either he could use the information to blackmail Deidre Scarpatti or he could sell it to the rest of the Scarpatti family. Both parties had money, although Deidre might be a bit tapped out by the existing blackmail scheme Marksman was running.

Ultimately the Scarpatti’s seemed like the better bet. Be a shame for the cute little Deidre chick to get killed, but them’s the breaks. She should’ve thought of that before she had her husband killed, Chester thought to himself.

OK, next problem – getting the Scarpatti’s to listen to, and believe, him. That could be trickier.

In his short time away from work, Dick Grayson had forgotten how gloomy his BFPD precinct house really was. The air always smelled of something akin to devilled eggs. Babs had finally given him the go-ahead to return to work, although his vigilante “privileges” were still revoked. Dick’s stomach was still somewhat unsettled, though, and the smell of his office threatened to cause an internal revolt.

Taking care to avoid yakking, Dick strode into his office and closed the door, aghast at the pile of paper he would need to wade through. He had just slumped into his chair when he heard a knock on the door. “Come in.” he muttered.

He was surprised to see Angela Shay saunter into the office and close his door. Shay seemed nice, but Dick was a bit put off by her often-revealing style of dress. Although it was easy on the eyes, it was out of place for a police officer. In Dick’s experience, strong, intelligent women who deliberately chose to dress provocatively were usually trying to use sex as a weapon, which begged the question – to what end?

“Hi, Dick. Mind if we chat for a moment?” Shay’s tone was conversational, with a hint of conspiracy.

Dick was surprised by the question, and by Shay’s tone. They’d never “chatted” before. Their interaction had been limited to her alternatively giving him orders and flirting with him. Nevertheless, he nodded his assent, and Shay took a seat opposite him, crossing her legs in a manner that would have embarrassed Sharon Stone.

“Have you checked in on Detective Rohrbach?” she asked.

“Sure. I went by the hospital before coming over here.” Dick’s former partner, and current friend Amy Rohrbach had been severely injured in a recent accident. “There’s not really any change. It sounds like the doctors are losing hope that she will wake up.” Amy had been in a coma since the accident.

Shay’s features feigned concern. “That’s too bad. I’ve heard that, too, that the first few days with coma patients are the most critical. But it’s too early to give up on her.”

“Yeah.” Dick really didn’t want to have this conversation.

“Anyway,” Shay said, recrossing her legs. Dick’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn. “There’s another matter I want to discuss with you. Before I do, though, I need to know that I can trust you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dick.. there are some cops who believe that other cops are above the law, that we should look the other way when there’s.. corruption. My personal opinion is that no one, and I mean no one, is above the law. Based on what little I know of you, I get the impression you would agree with that statement.”

If only you knew, Dick thought, contemplating his nocturnal activities. Nonetheless, he agreed with Shay in spirit, and said so.

“Good.” she answered, then paused. “Dick, I’m sure you’re aware that sometimes the nature of an investigation means that it should be conducted.. quietly. With discretion?”

“Sure.”

“Particularly when the investigation involves another member of the force?”

“Sure. Inspector-..”

“Angela. Please.” Again she recrossed her legs.

“Angela. Aren’t most investigations of police officers handled by IA?”

“Most. Most. Not all. Look – here’s the deal. I haven’t been working here all that long, as you know. But since I’ve been here, I’ve essentially been the number-two cop in this city. I have worked very closely with Chief Redhorn, and I have been privy to a lot of information.”

“Information?”

Shay nodded, then tossed a strand of her long hair behind her head. She really was remarkably attractive. “Information about the city’s power structure, about certain irregularities.”

Nightwing had a pretty good idea where Shay was headed, but it made sense for Dick Grayson to continue to appear naïve. “Such as?”

“Dick, I think that.. strike that, I know that Chief Redhorn is involved in a number of illegal activities.”

“That’s not really a big shock, Angela. But if you know all this, why don’t you turn him in to IA?”

“Redhorn has a lot of allies around here, including IA. Why do you think he’s never been investigated previously?”

“If you’re sure of his guilt, forget IA. Just arrest him.”

Shay shook her head. “I’d like to, but I don’t have the evidence to make a conviction stick. But..” she smiled as she looked at Dick. “I do have a few ideas about where to find it. If I could point a certain detective in that direction, it wouldn’t be too hard to uncover the evidence needed to put Redhorn away.”

Dick leaned back in his chair. “Anyone in particular in mind?”

Shay’s smile got wider. “Thought you’d never ask, handsome.”

Judge Rawlings banged his gavel, more out of frustration than to restore order in his courtroom. The mass of people were remarkably well-behaved, and he’d made sure ahead of time that there would be no cameras in the courtroom. “Mr. Williams, if you wish to respond, I’ll allow to do so – briefly.” The hearing had lasted more than an hour and a half already, and Judge Rawlings had six more motions to hear before lunch.

G. Lee Williams stood to address the Court. He was uncomfortable and awkward in court, especially outside of his homebase of Gotham. “Thank you, Your Honor. I would just say.. in response to the allegations of opposing counsels.. counsel.. that my client believes summary judgment is appropriate in this case.” He gestured to Preston Orcutt, seated at the crowded table for counsel.

“Mr. Orcutt has shown, through his affidavit, that he is the cousin of Roland Desmond. No evidence has been presented against.. to say he isn’t. Given that Mr. Desmond had no children, parents, grandparents, aunts, or uncles, Mr. Orcutt is the person entitled under law to take Mr. Desmond’s estate. The life insurance policy issued by the Defendant insurer clearly states that the benefits are to be paid to the person who will.. who is entitled to receive Desmond’s estate by law. None of these other claimants have shown they would be entitled to take.

“Mr. Orcutt asks that you grant summary judgment in his favor.”

Judge Rawlings leaned back in his seat, as if preparing a volley, then rocked forward. “Mr. Williams, your client’s motion is denied. The Defendant Ersatz Insurance Company has denied that Mr. Desmond is dead, which is a prerequisite for its obligation to pay anything under the policy.”

“With all due respect, Your Honor, Mr. Desmond’s hospital room was blown up. And he was in a coma prior to the explosion. How on Earth could he have survived?”

“Be that as it may, your client is the petitioner. A jury might reasonably conclude, based on the facts as alleged, that Mr. Desmond is deceased. But you have the burden of proof, and I will not infer, as a matter of law, that Mr. Desmond is dead just because you say so. This matter will have to be sorted out at a trial. Motion denied.

“Mr. Grubbs,” Judge Rawlings motioned to Ersatz’s lawyer. “Please prepare an Order memorializing my ruling and submit it by Friday.” His gavel banged, and the preparation began for the biggest trial in the city’s history. A jury would have to decide whether Roland Desmond – a.k.a. Blockbuster – was really dead.

“You think she’s on the level?” Babs’ voice was crystal-clear as always over his radio headset.

Dick was driving his unmarked home from work. “No. I don’t.”

“It doesn’t really make sense. If Shay knows where this evidence is, or might be, why doesn’t she just go get it herself?”

“She said she’s afraid of some sort of mob reprisal, but I don’t buy it.” Dick’s brow was furrowed as he puzzled out his situation.

“So,” Babs begged the question. “What are you going to do?”

“Well,” Dick thought out loud. “I can’t just look the other way. I’m a cop. Redhorn’s crooked as hell. If I’ve got a chance to get my hands on evidence that puts him away, I need to take it.

“On the other hand, I’ve got to keep an eye on Shay. I don’t trust her motives. She’s got another angle here.”

“My guess,” said Babs. “Is that she’s eliminating the competition. I think she’s got her eye on Redhorn’s job.”

“Which one? His legal one, or his illegal one?”

“Definitely the first. Maybe the second, too.”

“I don’t want that to happen, her taking over as Bludhaven’s crimelord. But I can’t just let Redhorn walk either. When’s my Nightwing probation up?”

Babs sighed. “You boys and your tights. I’m guessing soon? Be careful, babe.”

Chester was never a great typist, but his skills really went to hell when he lost his arm, especially since he lost his dominant arm. Writing or typing was almost always out of the question for him now.

In his time in Bludhaven, though, Chester had made one friend, a homeless woman named Edda. He didn’t know her last name, and suspected she didn’t know it, either. Edda talked to people who weren’t there. Sometimes she wore tinfoil on her head. She liked to spit giant loogies at random times, often spraying anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. But otherwise, she was a nice lady.

And she had two arms, which was a plus.

She’d had a few dollars, which he’d borrowed. They’d managed to find a pad, paper, envelope, and stamp. Edda had written the letter.

       To Whom It May Concern:

       I have learned the identity of Antonio Scarpatti’s killer. I will share this information with you for payment of five million dollars, in cash. I will provide any proof you need that the information is accurate. I am not a crank – this is legitimate information from an unimpeachable source. I will be in touch in the near future to discuss this matter. I will use the password “granny knot” to identify myself at the appropriate time. As a token of my sincerity, and to show you I am not lying, I will tell you that I know The Marksman works for you.

       Sincerely, “Deep Throat”

Maybe Deep Throat had been a little over the top, he thought upon reflection, but he didn’t want to provide clues to his real identity. As Slipknot, Chester had worked with, or for, the mob previously, and he knew that the people he was dealing with would sooner put a bullet in his head than look at him. If they thought he was bullshitting them, or that they could get the information from him without paying him, they wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

Credibility and control were the keys. First he had to gain credibility with the Scarpatti’s, make them see that he wasn’t another crank, that he really did have reliable information. Second, he had to make sure all their interactions were on his terms, not theirs. He must always have control of the situation. If he didn’t have control, if he played by someone else’s rules..

- well, that was how he ended up getting his arm blown off by a government-issued bracelet.

“Surely this is just some crank, Dad.” Charles looked at the grimy letter with disdain.

Romeo Scarpatti stood in his palatial study holding Chester’s letter. He held it up to the light, as if that would shed light on the veracity of its contents.

“Charles is probably right, Dad.” echoed Giovanni. “We got about a hundred of these crank ‘tips’ after Antonio died. Some of ‘em are nuts; some of ‘em are opportunists. But all of them are dirty.”

Romeo studied the letter, letting an uncomfortable silence fill the air. “Maybe.” he finally responded, eyes still scanning the document. “But this has something the others lacked.”

“Which is?” Charles asked.

“The reference to The Marksman. Very few people know he is employed by us.”

“Who is?” asked Deidre Scarpatti as she entered the room, jolting the father and brothers to attention. Instinctively, Romeo whipped the letter out of the air. “Am I missing something?” Deidre asked. “Who is employed by us?”

Romeo sighed. “I suppose you are entitled to be in the know on this, Deidre. The reference was to a gentleman who goes by the code-name The Marksman.” Deidre tried not to stiffen at the sound of his name.

Romeo handed her the letter, watched her eyes drink it in. Instantly the color left Deidre’s face. “As I was saying,” Romeo continued. “this writer seems to have some inside information. That would appear to distinguish him – or her; this looks like a woman’s handwriting – from the usual assortment of cranks.”

Deidre tried not to faint. She and The Marksman were the only ones who knew. The only ones. How could this--?

“Deidre, would you like to sit down. You look pale as a ghost. I’m sure this must be.. difficult for you.” Romeo led her to a chair.

Deidre’s voice was scratchy as she sank into the chair. “This has got to be.. some sort of.. prank or something.”

“Maybe.” Romeo answered, taking the letter back from her. “But this mention of The Marksman..”

“Dad,” Giovanni interjected. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd? That the writer would mention Marksman? I mean, yeah, we employ him, but what does that have to do with Antonio’s murder? What does one have to do with the other?” Deidre lost her breath for a moment.

“What indeed?” asked Romeo to no one in particular.

Jules Land had been counting down the minutes until closing time – nine pm – since about two that afternoon. He hadn’t taken a vacation in four years, and realized he needed one. The problem was that when he went on vacation, he had to take his wife along, and that killed his enjoyment of the trip. So he worked, without rest, in his little run-down gun store, whiling away the days to retirement.

The slim, red-haired man who’d been browsing for the last half-hour finally decided, at 9:07 pm, that he didn’t want to purchase anything. Jules tried not to hit the man as he left. Instead, he scanned the store to make sure he was alone, then locked the front door and changed the placard in the window from “open” to “close”.

As Jules turned around to head back to the stockroom, he froze. Chief Redhorn was standing right in front of him. Almost involuntarily, Jules’ hand moved toward the .45 he kept strapped to his belt.

“Jules.” Redhorn’s voice wasn’t a shout, but it was authoritative enough to stop Jules’ hand. “No need for that.” His assurance was oddly un-reassuring.

“Chief Redhorn.” Jules stammered. “I didn’t see you come in. Can I.. help you?”

“Yes you can.” Redhorn nodded decisively. “I need some information.”

“Is this a police matter?”

“Of a sort. Of a sort.” Redhorn was exhibiting a quiet confidence Jules wasn’t used to seeing. He’d always known the Chief to be an impulsive, crass man who bullied his way through life. Now, Redhorn seemed almost.. smug. Almost outside himself. A knot formed in Jules’ stomach.

“Well,” Jules stammered. “I will certainly help you if I can.” Jules tried to calculate how long it would take him to draw his gun. Redhorn didn’t seem to be carrying anything, although he was definitely packing. Redhorn was younger, and probably quicker than Jules, but maybe Jules could take him by surprise if he needed to.

“It’s like this, Jules.” Redhorn was only a few feet from Jules’ face. “You probably saw on the news how someone tried to kill me awhile back, right?”

Jules nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did. Did you find out who?”

“Not yet. Not yet. But I have been looking. You know what I found?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Ballistics showed that the bullets fired at me came from a very exotic rifle. The Zircher-ZSG. You know that gun?”

“Yes. You are correct – very exotic.”

“Very. So exotic, in fact, that nowhere in Bludhaven sells it or the custom ammunition it requires. So exotic that it has been banned by the federal government.” His lips formed a cruel grin. “Meaning no one sells it – at least not officially. Have we had a talk about your ‘unofficial’ business lately, Jules?”

“Chief Redhorn, I can assure you, I have not sold any Zirchers. Really.”

“But you sold the ammo, didn’t you Jules?”

“I cannot-..”

Redhorn’s fist struck Jules’ face before he knew it was coming. Jules flew backward and landed against a display case. He reached for his gun, but Redhorn was on him before he could get near it. Redhorn twisted his wrist, and Jules heard it snap. Redhorn punched Jules squarely in the gut, leaving him gasping for air. Jules slumped to the floor, hyperventilating while Redhorn stood over him.

“I’m going to find out who tried to kill me, Jules. You’re going to tell me who you sold that ammo to.”

Jules struggled to get the words out. “I don’t know… his… real name.. just his … code name. He.. ca-calls «kaff kaff» .. himself the… «kaff» Marksman.”

Redhorn smiled, a hint of insanity gleaming in his steely eyes.

To Be Continued...

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