Nightwing

No one was there when she woke up.

Later, when people asked her about her experience, she’d give them the pat answers. The thing is, in a lot of ways, being in a coma is like being dead. No one really knows how to describe the experience. Over the years a folklore about coma patients has developed. Most of it comes from movies and TV – stories of people waking at the sound of music, reassurances that the patient heard and understood things that happened during the sleep.

Amy Rohrbach told people all of those things. She told them about Frieda Shephard from her church choir singing to her. She told them about her husband George holding her hand. She told them about her son telling her about his day in school. In time, Amy actually started to remember those things happening. But she wasn’t sure if she really remembered them, or if she’d willed herself to gain the memories based on things people told her. Were they real memories, or thoughts she’d planted in her own mind? Can someone’s will be strong enough to convince her of something she knows isn’t true?

Amy wasn’t sure. All she really remembered about waking up was being confused. She didn’t know, consciously, that she’d been in a coma at first. After all, the whole thing happened while she was asleep. Amy experienced the sensation of waking up, just like rising in her own bed on a lazy weekend morning, that dreamy fugue state between sleep and wakening. Only something was different. The world smelled different. She smelled different. Something was wrong.

Her cop’s instinct kicking in, Amy tried to snap herself into full awareness and get her bearings, only to find the task impossible. Although her mind willed it, her arms would not move. Her legs would not move. Her eyes opened, but slowly, much more slowly than she wanted. The light was odd, a shock to her system even though it wasn’t terribly bright. Later she’d learn she’d woken in the middle of the night, when the hospital lights were dimmed but not out.

With her eyes open, Amy could see that she was in a sterile room, laying on a bed. Quickly she gathered that she was in a hospital. Her mind raced as she tried to remember why she would be in a hospital. She opened her mouth to speak, finding her lips dry. She was sure her breath was horrible; her whole mouth felt atrophied. How long had she been asleep?

She’d learn later that she’d been unresponsive for over three weeks, that her physicians had twice considered declaring her to be in a persistent vegetative state. She’d learn about the severity of her injuries, and the long road ahead of her.

But for now, Amy was just happy to be awake.

“I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning”, Nightwing thought to himself as he leapt into the fray. Two shurikens sprang from his gloved left hand, each finding the trigger hand of one of the five gunmen before him. Each gunman yelped as he dropped his gun, clutching his hand in pain. Even before Nightwing hit the ground from his fifteen foot drop, his right leg had kicked out, disabling a third gunman, and snapped back into place to break his fall.

Landing in a crouch, Nightwing hesitated only an instant, long enough for one of the remaining two gunsels to fire, but not so long that the shot could actually connect. Ignoring the shooter, Nightwing lunged instead at the final gunman, too slow on the trigger to get off a shot before Nightwing sent his gun spinning away. Nightwing grabbed the stunned killer by the torso, pushing him backwards and using his weight to spring his own feet back, delivering a vicious kick to the errant shooter. As his paperweight fell to the ground, Nightwing somersaulted out of the pile, flipping around and landing in a crouch as his final target fell to the ground. With his left hand, Nightwing launched his escrima sticks at two recovering hoods, then delivered a roundhouse punch to the final gunsel.

Scanning the scene quickly, Nightwing confirmed that all five gunmen were unconscious. His senses remained on high alert, however, as his vision panned to take in their would-be victim, a skinny man in a baseball cap racing away.

Without hesitation, Nightwing grabbed his Bat-line from his side and snared the fleeing man, tripping him and sending him to the pavement face-first. The man yelped as his nose broke.

No sympathy was evident as Nightwing grabbed the crying man from the pavement and spun him around so they were face-to-face. Despite having just had his live saved, the victim was somewhat ungrateful.

“Doo bassid!! Doo broge by dose!! I could’ub been killed!!” For just a moment, the man’s arms flailed as if he might try to strike Nightwing. In an instant, the man found himself pinned back to the ground, arms pinned to his side. “Bassid”, he muttered again, but this time the anger had left his voice, replaced by indignation.

“I guess that’s the same as ‘thanks’, Finny” grinned Nightwing.

“I could’ub got a concusson.”

“You could have a lobotomy and no one would notice, Finny. Now I need to talk to you.”

“Aboud whud?” Finny tried to sound curious.

“The stock market. What do you think, you big dope? I want to know why those guys were trying to kill you.” During interrogations, Nightwing often asked questions to which he already knew the answers, just to hear it confirmed by someone in the know, maybe have a new wrinkle added by the answer. This wasn’t one of those times. This time he was genuinely in the dark as to why five hired gunmen would try to kill a low-level runner in the Oaknine crime family.

“I don’ know who dey are. I swear I don’ know.”

“Come on, Finny. What is this, a turf spat?”

“I swear I don’ know. Dere’s all kinda stuff goin’ on aroun’ here lately.”

“Such as?”

“I don’ know. Weird stuff. Guys goin’ missin’.”

“What guys?” Now Nightwing’s interest was really piqued.

Finny struggled as if trying to recall. “Lesse… Lester Balcom.” Lieutenant in the Indrale organization. “Vinny Rosperello.” Numbers runner, rumored to be connected to the Scarpattis. “Some oddurs.”

“These guys leaving town? Splitting off to form their own gang? What’s the deal, Finny?”

“Dunno. I dunno. Somedin’s goink on. Somebuddy’s takin’ out wiseguys. I don’ know who, doh, I swear.”

The Clocktower

“-only a month away, huh?” Dinah Lance’s voice was crystal clear over her microphone, even though she was speaking from halfway across the world. “You’ve started packing up already?”

Barbara Gordon suppressed a smirk as she spoke with her friend, while simultaneously playing a game of chess with a fellow internet denizen in Sweden. “Yup. Not too far off now.” She clicked to move her knight to E5.

“So,” Dinah continued, “Getting the jitters yet?”

“Not exactly.” Babs waited for her opponent’s move. He’d been remarkably slow thus far, and she expected the pattern to continue. “I don’t know. It’s just all starting to feel real, you know? I got a call today that the bridesmaids’ dresses are in.”

“Nice. I’ll have something to try on when I get back to Gotham. Hope it’s flattering – by the way, how many cute guys are you expecting?”

“Well, Robin will be there.” Now Babs had lost the battle with the smirk.

“He’s available?” came the mock-shocked reply. “I just assumed he was dating Batman. Why does ol’ long-ears pal around with little boys all the time anyway?”

Babs sighed. “Not that old line again. I can assure you, Ms. Lance, that both Batman and Robin – ALL the Robins, just for the record – are staunch heterosexuals. Especially the first Robin.”

Dinah laughed. “Good to know – not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Did you stop watching TV in 1994?”

“You slay me. Seriously, did you finally decide on the rest of the wedding party?”

“Yes,” replied Babs. “You, Cassie, and Donna Troy are the bridesmaids. Wally West is the best man, and Tim and Roy Harper are the groomsmen.”

“Wow; an all super-hero cast.”

The wedding planning had been an interesting time for Dick and Babs. The problem was that most of their friends were superheroes, but many of them didn’t know each others’ identities. Dinah, for example, hadn’t known that Tim was Robin, but there was no way to involve them both with the wedding without her figuring it out. Consent to disclose had to be obtained, and it had been a tricky issue. Finally, Babs and Dick were satisfied everything was in order. Even Batman had consented, after some cajoling.

“Babs?” Dinah’s words shook her from her reverie. “Something wrong?”

“No, no, I just.. I guess it’s jitters. It’s a big change; that’s all.”

“Well relax, o’ great seer. Nothing to worry about here. Your big day is coming, and nothing’s going to interfere. Canary out.”

Geez, Babs thought as the connection terminated. Can you jinx me any worse than that, Dinah?

George Preston Orcutt was startled by the knock on the door. He’d been waiting in his attorney’s office for over half an hour, and had stopped expecting his entry. “You ready, Preston?” came the query from behind him. Orcutt swiveled in his plush chair to see G. Lee Williams enter.

Orcutt stood and wiped his suit into place before answering. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready. You’ve got a nice office here.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting. My paralegal’s ready to drive us over, now, though.”

Orcutt waved his hand dismissively. “s’ok. I was just admiring your office. Your paralegal get you all this stuff?” He pointed to Williams’ plush office décor, complete with two beautiful oil paintings and a large, sweet-smelling plant.

“I’ve picked it up here and there.” replied Williams proudly. In his heart of hearts, Williams knew he was a shyster, but his possessions signified a status he wished he really deserved. He pointed at one of the paintings. “That one was a gift from the governor. I helped him out with some things a few years ago.” They paused and admired the office again. “Shall we?” Williams finally said, gesturing for the door.

“Absolutely.” said Orcutt as they departed. “Let’s go win this city.”

“This is Olivia Ortega with a Special Edition of Viewpoint. We’re here live at the third day of jury selection in what is quickly becoming known as The Blockbuster Trial. Four of the twelve jurors have been impaneled, and jury selection is estimated to continue at least another three days. I’m joined by my colleague, our legal correspondent Brian Capitano. Brian, what can you tell us about the proceedings so far?”

“Well Olivia, there’s not a whole lot to report. With five different lawyers involved, you can bet jury selection will get tougher and tougher as it proceeds. It’s going to be increasingly difficult to find jurors who satisfy all of the parties.”

“Brian, what impact if any will the gender of the claimants have on selection? We’ve been surprised to learn, literally at the eleventh hour, that two of the four people claiming to be Roland Desmond’s heir and beneficiary are women.”

“You’d like to say there will be no impact, but that’d be silly, Olivia. The fact is, the female claimants, Uthrow and Kolins, are going to want more women on the jury. The male claimants, Orcutt and Plika, are going to want more men. And the representatives of Ersatz Insurance are going to be looking at other demographic factors. Now, none of the parties has the right to strike jurors solely based on sex, race, or similar factors. But each party has eight peremptory strikes which they have wide latitude to use. You can bet they will all be using most, if not all, of their strikes. There’s also a chance additional jurors could be excused for cause, such as the case yesterday of the young woman who was a former client of Uthrow’s attorney.”

“Thank you, Brian. Coming up after these announcements, we’ll have a feature on…”

“Haven’t they been running that ‘Special Edition’ for about three days now? Doesn’t really seem special.” Lt. Drebbin flipped off the small black-and-white television and turned to face Dick Grayson. “Don’t you think, Detective?”

Dick was still getting used to his new title. He regarded Drebbin carefully before proceeding. “I guess.” He added unconvincingly. “I’m not sure the Blockbuster Trial is our biggest problem right now.” Dick ran his hands over the five mugshots laid out on his desk, staring into the faces of the gunmen Nightwing had disarmed the night before.

“We haven’t been able to connect these joes to anyone local, I take it?” asked Drebbin.

Dick still felt uncomfortably without Amy in the office. Drebbin seemed honest enough, but Dick didn’t know him, trust him, as much as his former partner. He shook his head slowly. “Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re not local; just that we haven’t tied them to anyone.”

“Thing is, Detective, if these guys are local, who’s their target. Is it restricted to Finny, or— ..”

He didn’t have to finish the thought. The BFPD had picked up Finny early in the morning for public drunkenness. He’d told the same story in the interview room (after sobering up) that he’d told Nightwing the night before, about wiseguys disappearing. It was a nice piece of happenstance for Dick, who otherwise couldn’t have let on that he knew the information. But no one knew what to make of Finny’s “confession”. Was he lying altogether? Was there really any connection between the disappearances and the hit on him? Nightwing had stared into Finny’s face when he confessed. He knew, in a way he couldn’t articulate, that Finny was telling the truth, or at least believed he was telling the truth.

Drebbin continued. “He’s fingered guys from the Indrale and Scarpatti families, and he’s Oaknine. That’s all three active families. I can see them having it in for each other, but who’d be after all three?”

“Maybe no one. Maybe some of the hits are retaliation for some of the others.” Dick was thinking out loud, but corrected himself. “But if that were true, everyone would know it. They’d be ratting each other out.

“The Indrales are fighting amongst themselves, power struggle going on between Frank and Walter. The Scarpattis are currently being run by an aging don in a holding cell and his one remaining son, who’s about ready for a mental institution. Oaknine’s the only one is still organized, and Finny works for them. It’s got to be someone else.”

“Eddie Mihn, maybe?” Drebbin offered. Bludhaven’s rumored-reclusive crime boss was a wild card. Dick knew Mihn was dead, and that his wife wasn’t the gang war type.

Dick shook his head. “Don’t think so. Mihn’s been out of the picture for some time. He’s not a serious player at this point.”

“Cops?” Drebbin looked around conspiratorially.

Dick’s heart sunk into his stomach as he considered the possibility. “I guess we shouldn’t rule that out. Our leadership is in turmoil right now, too, though, with Chief Redhorn dead and Shay taking over. Our corrupt element surely has better ways to bring the gangs into line than in hitting people like Finny.”

“So someone from outside. A new player in the Haven? Or..”

“Or what?”

Drebbin looked sheepish. “I hate to even suggest it, Detective, because I know how it sounds, but …. are we sure Blockbuster is gone?”

Dick grimaced. His initial reaction was yes, stupid, Blockbuster is gone. He got blown up. But Nightwing knew anything was possible. How many villains had cheated seeming death over the years? They’d never found Desmond’s body; was it possible Blockbuster could have survived? Could the whole explosion at the hospital have been a setup? Dick measured his words before responding. “Let’s look at it this way, Officer. As far as we know, Roland Desmond is dead. Even if he’s not dead, before the explosion he was comatose. We’ve got no evidence to suggest he’s involved in whatever’s brewing, and we can’t run with supposition. Let’s look in another area for now.”

And even as he spoke, Dick knew Nightwing was overdue to “supplement” his investigation into Blockbuster’s death.

The morning’s activities had been painfully boring for Stanley Plika. He’d sat at counsel table for yet another day as the interminable jury selection process droned on. Stanley’s attorney, and all the others, had asked question after tedious question of the poor besotted saps sitting in the jury box. A grand total of one juror had been removed from the panel, only to be replaced by a fresh face who could be subjected to the entire litany of questions, repeated from the beginning. No new jurors had actually been impaneled. Even the Judge was showing a growing frustration with the process, twice cutting off attorneys’ questions and instructing them to move on.

Stanley felt like his legs had atrophied as he staggered out into the hall. It was then that he remembered Jill, his wife. She would want an update on the proceedings. They’d talked about having her come to the trial, but she really couldn’t afford the time off of work, so the decision had been made that he would go it alone.

Stanley strode down the long narrow hall, not really noticing the people scurrying this way and that, reaching into his pocket for his cellphone. He turned abruptly when he heard his name called. Initially he thought it was a member of the press, and he looked up in anger. The voice came from only a few feet away, and the caller was alone.

“What is it?” he asked as he strode toward the caller. “Can I help you?”

“Stanley, my friend,” came the reply, “I’ve got an offer you can’t resist.”

“-ater, Detective Dick!” came the sarcastic call from down the hall. Angela Shay stood at alert to hear Dick Grayson’s playful response, then heard a door shut as the detective left the station. She waited for five breathless minutes until she was sure he was gone, then carefully slid into his office, turning the light on and shutting the door.

Her actions were brazen, she knew. Anyone could see the light in the office was on, and someone might let Grayson know. Brazen or no, she thought, it was a calculated risk. Something was going on with Detective Dick Grayson, and she wanted to know what. Shay knew Grayson was a straight arrow in a crooked environment, but she also knew that straight arrows in Bludhaven either got bent or broken. Amy Rohrbach was testament to that, surely. So far, though, Grayson had survived the streets, despite her manipulating him into several precarious situations. Not only had he survived them, he’d seem to thrive.

At least, she observed, Detective Grayson had the fault of being messy; it was nice to know he wasn’t perfect, she thought as she glanced over his desk. Her eyes settled on a folder marked “Balcom, Lester”. A missing person’s file on Balcom? It lay on top of four other files, the bottom marked “Gulch, Phineas.” Finny.

Shay wasted no time reading every detail of the five files, including Grayson’s notes. Grayson clearly believed the various mob disappearances were connected to each other and the attempted hit on Gulch. Amazing he’d figured that out so quickly, she thought.

But it was equally clear Grayson hadn’t discerned the pattern, or the culprit, behind the disappearances. Still, with a little nudge in the right direction, he would probably figure it out eventually.

Shay was so lost in thought she jumped when her cellphone rang. Quickly regaining her composure, she whipped it out swiftly. “Shay.”

“Hello, Interim Chief Shay” intoned the gravelly voice on the other end of the line. “I thought it high time I introduced myself. You’re a bit adrift at the moment, I take it, with Lady Vic out of the picture?”

This could be a setup, thought Shay. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, she replied coolly.

“Fair enough,” came the measured response. “I’ll do the talking. Lady Vic was your point of contact with your employer. When she was taken off the board, with Chief Redhorn shortly thereafter, you were left with no way to contact your employer.”

“I don’t know—“

“The cat-and-mouse game is over, Angela. I am your employer. You may have heard of me, Inspector. My name is..”

Shay felt beads of sweat form on her forehead as she heard the rest.

The passage of time had lost meaning for Leo Oaknine. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat in his cell, numb at the recent events that had taken his son and daughter-in-law, the corruption and betrayal that had destroyed his family. He knew he needed to pull together, muster a defense, to save what was left of his empire. But somehow he just didn’t feel like it. It seemed like an awful lot of work, and he felt he’d rather just keep staring straight ahead.

He saw the figure approaching his cell well in advance. He could have cried out, but again it just didn’t seem worth doing. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle as the dark-clad figure approached. Even when his name was called, he didn’t respond.

In the last second, just as he saw the gun, Leo’s brain clicked back into operation. Then it clicked right back out.

“Hey” came a call from three cells down as footsteps receded into the darkness. “What was that sound?”

To Be Continued...

Previous Issue | Next Issue