Jason Blood
Feb 18th, 2013, 11:25:35 PM
Gotham City. Dark. Dank. Quite possibly the worst place I have ever lived.
And yet here I live, not entirely through choice, wading through seas of the degenerate and the desperate. Never before have I seen so many people in one place who have simply given up. Never before have I seen a city so resigned to give up on itself.
A deep drag brightened the faint glow of the cigarette for a moment, but it wasn't enough to penetrate the veil of darkness that hung over the alleyway. Occasional scattered street lamps attempted to pierce the blackness, but between the stray gunshots and hurled bricks that had shattered all but a few, their success was only marginal. Such disarray and destitution seemed absurd for a city that every year poured millions of dollars into beautifying other districts, but the City Council knew - just like the residents - that trying to clean up the Narrows was like putting nail polish on a leper: hardly worth the effort when it's only a matter of time before the fingers fall off.
Granted, there are still a few who cling to the illusion that Gotham is not beyond saving. One calls himself The Batman, and disguises himself as a creature of darkness. He thinks that through terror and intimidation he can scare Gotham into freedom; drive away the shadows so that the city can crawl it's way into a brighter tomorrow.
Not likely. The only Shadows that Batman could scare away belonged to Ra's al-Ghul, and I have seen infants perform more impressive feats. At best, Batman is Gotham's gardener: pruning back the weak to make space for the strong to flourish and grow.
The sound of a rolling glass bottle, dislodged by some sort of scuffle no doubt, echoed through the night in stark contrast to the steady footfalls of the smoker's feet. For an idle moment he contemplated whether a fox, raccoon, or whatever other oversized vermin happened to be the norm in Gotham might be responsible, but he quickly ruled that out. The level of gun ownership in this neighbourhood was high, and unlike humans most other species were smart enough to stay away from areas where they were likely to get shot.
They call him the Dark Knight, but they don't know the meaning of the word. The only thing 'knightly' about anything in Gotham are the whores' visits to the Mayor's apartment.
The sight of red and blue flickering in the distance brought a slump to the smoker's shoulders. The sight of his destination should have filled him with enthusiasm, or at the very least a little relief; but it was what his destination brought with it that gave him pause. Police officers were not the most intelligent of folk, and the fact that they were supposedly Gotham's finest was a source of considerable disappointment. He loathed these tiresome descents from the lofty intellectual heights in which he usually dwelt to the comparatively Neanderthal levels of there understanding; but it was a necessary evil in situations such as this.
Salvaging one last precious drag of smoke and nicotine, he flicked the cigarette butt aside, a few glowing embers lingering on the ground for a moment before they died, like so many other things had on the pavement of Crime Alley. Finding his hands at a loss for a manual distraction, he dug them deeply into his pockets, and strode towards the most important looking - and, by complete coincidence, the largest - police officer on the scene.
"Detective Bullock," he stated calmly, applying perhaps a little too much emphasis to the Detective's name. He couldn't help it: it was such an apt name for the huge, bull-headed creature that stood before him. He'd never met a purer example of a stereotype - in this case a Brooklyn Detective - before.
A grunt was all Bullock offered in greeting. "Was wond'rin' when you'd show up, Blood."
The man's collar was unbuttoned, tie tugged loose and his shirt a little askew around the waistband. Ordinarily, Blood might have deduced that Bullock had been woken late at night, or had been called in after a particularly long shift, but Bullock always looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed, tripped over, and fallen through a hedge backwards. It was part of his charm.
"We're lookin' at a homicide," Bullock explained, jerking his head towards the highest concentration of police officers, and beginning a slow amble towards them. "Body was dumped, but no leads on where our main crime scene is at just yet. Vic shows signs of being restrained; looks like a standard kidnap killing."
"If it were," Blood interrupted grimly, "I wouldn't be here."
Bullock began to nod at the sage observation, but his expression quickly morphed into a frown. "Speaking of, how'd you get here? I didn't see that clunky old motor 'a yours rollin' up. You get a ride in with uniforms or somethin'?"
"I walked," he replied simply.
"Walked?" Bullock's eyebrows rose to underscore his scepticism. "Through the Narrows?" Jason's reply was a simple shrug of his shoulders; Bullock's head shook in disbelief. "It's times like this, Blood, I'm never sure if you're ballsy or just stupid."
"Neither, actually," Jason countered, "But I believe you were about to explain what is so odd about your victim."
Another grunt from the Detective; another caveman body gesture, this time towards the nude and akimbo figure sprawled across the damp and grubby ground. "Aside from the lacerations on the wrist from where he was tied, there's no external signs a' trauma. No bruising. No defensive wounds. It's like they snagged him, tied him up, and he just died a' natural causes in the trunk."
A frown creased Blood's brow; hitching the fabric of his trousers a little higher past his knees, he dropped down into a crouch beside the on-scene ME. A hand delved into a pocket, and tugged out one of the myriad pairs of latex gloves that he kept appropriating from the GCPD every time he happened to swing by. "May I?" he asked, a questioning glance thrown at the medical examiner. She shot such a glance of her own at Detective Bullock; a shrug that was all he offered to back Blood up, but the doctor nodded her ascent anyway.
Careful as ever, he lifted the victim's arm, curious scrutiny given to the groove carved across his wrist by friction. Corresponding wounds decorated the front of his ankles; but curiously not the back, nor the back of his wrists as one might suspect. A slight shift of the body to peer at the deepening purple discolouration of lividity - the way the body's fluids sunk groundwards because of gravity after death - confirmed his suspicions.
"Your victim didn't die in the trunk of a car, Detective," Blood stated, speaking more like a lecturer in a class room than a Consulting Detective at a crime scene. "Lividity suggests that he was lying on his back for some time after he died. And these wounds, while certainly from being restrained, are not involuntary." He held a limb up for scrutiny. "The wounds are on the top surface of the limbs, but not the sides or bottom. That suggests they were caused by pulling repeatedly on his restraints; not what you'd expect from a captive trying to wriggle free."
He heaved out a contemplative sigh, and heaved himself back to his feet. "It seems pretty obvious really, Detective."
"Does it," Bullock grunted, more an impatient threat than a question.
Blood pointed to the body. "This man died on his back, while straining against ropes that bound his hands and feet. Add to that the strange lack of clothing, and the lack of any external signs of trauma that might suggest any sort of confrontation or struggle, and one can only presume that this individual was slain during a particularly energetic bout of coitus."
"Bout of what?" Bullock echoed.
"Coitus," Blood repeated, more slowly this time. "Intercourse. Sex. The beast with two backs -"
Bullock held up a hand to stall the tirade of synonyms. "I know what coitus is, Blood. But are you suggesting that this guy, what, accidentally had a heart attack and died right in the middle of it?"
"Oh no," Blood countered. "I doubt the heart attack was accidental at all."
Bullock's voice was even more disbelieving than before. "You think someone screwed this guy to death on purpose? Used drugs or something, maybe?"
"Perhaps," Blood mused. "Or perhaps not."
A dark sense of dread crept into Bullock's frown: the look of someone who had heard far too many crackpot theories over the course of his career, but was stuck in a time and a place where metahumans and other things made those crackpot theories turn out to be true far too often. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"
"Probably not," Jason replied, with the faintest hint of a smile. "Tell me, Detective: have you ever heard of a succubus?"
And yet here I live, not entirely through choice, wading through seas of the degenerate and the desperate. Never before have I seen so many people in one place who have simply given up. Never before have I seen a city so resigned to give up on itself.
A deep drag brightened the faint glow of the cigarette for a moment, but it wasn't enough to penetrate the veil of darkness that hung over the alleyway. Occasional scattered street lamps attempted to pierce the blackness, but between the stray gunshots and hurled bricks that had shattered all but a few, their success was only marginal. Such disarray and destitution seemed absurd for a city that every year poured millions of dollars into beautifying other districts, but the City Council knew - just like the residents - that trying to clean up the Narrows was like putting nail polish on a leper: hardly worth the effort when it's only a matter of time before the fingers fall off.
Granted, there are still a few who cling to the illusion that Gotham is not beyond saving. One calls himself The Batman, and disguises himself as a creature of darkness. He thinks that through terror and intimidation he can scare Gotham into freedom; drive away the shadows so that the city can crawl it's way into a brighter tomorrow.
Not likely. The only Shadows that Batman could scare away belonged to Ra's al-Ghul, and I have seen infants perform more impressive feats. At best, Batman is Gotham's gardener: pruning back the weak to make space for the strong to flourish and grow.
The sound of a rolling glass bottle, dislodged by some sort of scuffle no doubt, echoed through the night in stark contrast to the steady footfalls of the smoker's feet. For an idle moment he contemplated whether a fox, raccoon, or whatever other oversized vermin happened to be the norm in Gotham might be responsible, but he quickly ruled that out. The level of gun ownership in this neighbourhood was high, and unlike humans most other species were smart enough to stay away from areas where they were likely to get shot.
They call him the Dark Knight, but they don't know the meaning of the word. The only thing 'knightly' about anything in Gotham are the whores' visits to the Mayor's apartment.
The sight of red and blue flickering in the distance brought a slump to the smoker's shoulders. The sight of his destination should have filled him with enthusiasm, or at the very least a little relief; but it was what his destination brought with it that gave him pause. Police officers were not the most intelligent of folk, and the fact that they were supposedly Gotham's finest was a source of considerable disappointment. He loathed these tiresome descents from the lofty intellectual heights in which he usually dwelt to the comparatively Neanderthal levels of there understanding; but it was a necessary evil in situations such as this.
Salvaging one last precious drag of smoke and nicotine, he flicked the cigarette butt aside, a few glowing embers lingering on the ground for a moment before they died, like so many other things had on the pavement of Crime Alley. Finding his hands at a loss for a manual distraction, he dug them deeply into his pockets, and strode towards the most important looking - and, by complete coincidence, the largest - police officer on the scene.
"Detective Bullock," he stated calmly, applying perhaps a little too much emphasis to the Detective's name. He couldn't help it: it was such an apt name for the huge, bull-headed creature that stood before him. He'd never met a purer example of a stereotype - in this case a Brooklyn Detective - before.
A grunt was all Bullock offered in greeting. "Was wond'rin' when you'd show up, Blood."
The man's collar was unbuttoned, tie tugged loose and his shirt a little askew around the waistband. Ordinarily, Blood might have deduced that Bullock had been woken late at night, or had been called in after a particularly long shift, but Bullock always looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed, tripped over, and fallen through a hedge backwards. It was part of his charm.
"We're lookin' at a homicide," Bullock explained, jerking his head towards the highest concentration of police officers, and beginning a slow amble towards them. "Body was dumped, but no leads on where our main crime scene is at just yet. Vic shows signs of being restrained; looks like a standard kidnap killing."
"If it were," Blood interrupted grimly, "I wouldn't be here."
Bullock began to nod at the sage observation, but his expression quickly morphed into a frown. "Speaking of, how'd you get here? I didn't see that clunky old motor 'a yours rollin' up. You get a ride in with uniforms or somethin'?"
"I walked," he replied simply.
"Walked?" Bullock's eyebrows rose to underscore his scepticism. "Through the Narrows?" Jason's reply was a simple shrug of his shoulders; Bullock's head shook in disbelief. "It's times like this, Blood, I'm never sure if you're ballsy or just stupid."
"Neither, actually," Jason countered, "But I believe you were about to explain what is so odd about your victim."
Another grunt from the Detective; another caveman body gesture, this time towards the nude and akimbo figure sprawled across the damp and grubby ground. "Aside from the lacerations on the wrist from where he was tied, there's no external signs a' trauma. No bruising. No defensive wounds. It's like they snagged him, tied him up, and he just died a' natural causes in the trunk."
A frown creased Blood's brow; hitching the fabric of his trousers a little higher past his knees, he dropped down into a crouch beside the on-scene ME. A hand delved into a pocket, and tugged out one of the myriad pairs of latex gloves that he kept appropriating from the GCPD every time he happened to swing by. "May I?" he asked, a questioning glance thrown at the medical examiner. She shot such a glance of her own at Detective Bullock; a shrug that was all he offered to back Blood up, but the doctor nodded her ascent anyway.
Careful as ever, he lifted the victim's arm, curious scrutiny given to the groove carved across his wrist by friction. Corresponding wounds decorated the front of his ankles; but curiously not the back, nor the back of his wrists as one might suspect. A slight shift of the body to peer at the deepening purple discolouration of lividity - the way the body's fluids sunk groundwards because of gravity after death - confirmed his suspicions.
"Your victim didn't die in the trunk of a car, Detective," Blood stated, speaking more like a lecturer in a class room than a Consulting Detective at a crime scene. "Lividity suggests that he was lying on his back for some time after he died. And these wounds, while certainly from being restrained, are not involuntary." He held a limb up for scrutiny. "The wounds are on the top surface of the limbs, but not the sides or bottom. That suggests they were caused by pulling repeatedly on his restraints; not what you'd expect from a captive trying to wriggle free."
He heaved out a contemplative sigh, and heaved himself back to his feet. "It seems pretty obvious really, Detective."
"Does it," Bullock grunted, more an impatient threat than a question.
Blood pointed to the body. "This man died on his back, while straining against ropes that bound his hands and feet. Add to that the strange lack of clothing, and the lack of any external signs of trauma that might suggest any sort of confrontation or struggle, and one can only presume that this individual was slain during a particularly energetic bout of coitus."
"Bout of what?" Bullock echoed.
"Coitus," Blood repeated, more slowly this time. "Intercourse. Sex. The beast with two backs -"
Bullock held up a hand to stall the tirade of synonyms. "I know what coitus is, Blood. But are you suggesting that this guy, what, accidentally had a heart attack and died right in the middle of it?"
"Oh no," Blood countered. "I doubt the heart attack was accidental at all."
Bullock's voice was even more disbelieving than before. "You think someone screwed this guy to death on purpose? Used drugs or something, maybe?"
"Perhaps," Blood mused. "Or perhaps not."
A dark sense of dread crept into Bullock's frown: the look of someone who had heard far too many crackpot theories over the course of his career, but was stuck in a time and a place where metahumans and other things made those crackpot theories turn out to be true far too often. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"
"Probably not," Jason replied, with the faintest hint of a smile. "Tell me, Detective: have you ever heard of a succubus?"