Nightwing #44--Murder By Midnight

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Writer: Batkid
Cover Art: Ramon Villalobos
Editor: Ellen Fleischer

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Murder by Midnight

Dick Grayson’s gloved hand reached up into the air as he jumped, and easily caught the flying object as it whipped through the air. He twisted in midair, landing solidly and sending the object flying back towards its owner. There was a satisfying thump as it reached its destination.

Tim Drake smiled as he caught the baseball in his mitt. This was the first real chance he and Dick had had to just relax in… well, a very long time. Even after Bruce had returned from the dead, and Dick hadn’t had to juggle being both Nightwing and Batman, both Dick and Tim had spent months cleaning up the aftermath of Ra’s Al Ghul. They’d also had to make several press conferences about Bruce’s return. Nightwing’s recent Brazilian adventure with Teen Titans West hadn’t exactly been a picnic, either.

Tim tossed the ball to Dick. All in all, it was good to have a chance to relax. Dick threw the ball back to Tim again, who quickly returned it. His aim was off, and Dick jumped high to catch it. It soared undeterred over his head. Dick didn’t even have to turn to know where it had landed. Tim walked toward him, looking both sheepish and disappointed. “Sorry,” he said.

Dick winked. “You’re not the only one who’s had a few baseballs—or footballs, softballs or kickballs—land in the pool. Bruce wasn’t exactly the best ballplayer.”

“How many did he throw in?” Tim wondered.

Dick whispered the amount, smiling when Tim’s eyes widened. “Yeah. The guy’s pretty good with a batarang, but my advice? Don’t give him a baseball.”

Since their ball was now 12 feet underwater, Dick and Tim turned back toward the Manor for lunch.

“You’re still going out with Starfire, tonight?” Tim asked.

“Unless something comes up,” Dick said, knowing that there was a strong possibility that an emergency would arise. “I won’t leave here till five-ish, though. We have time to work on your double-flip after lunch.”

Tim nodded his agreement. “I can land most of them, but I can’t always get my right foot to stick.”

Dick nodded absent-mindedly. Tim caught his distraction.

“You’re going away again, aren’t you?

Nodding his head, Dick said, “Most of my work with the Titans has been in Brazil lately. Bruce has been back for months now, and doesn’t need me here.”

“So, you’re going back to New York.” Tim had known that Dick would eventually have to go back to full-timing in New York, but had enjoyed the transition time they’d spent together while Bruce was catching up on other things.

“I’m not so sure. I’m actually thinking of going to Bludhaven.” Dick watched Tim’s face.

Tim hadn’t been there, had only seen it on the news. Bludhaven was even worse than Gotham as far as the crime rate went. “Why Bludhaven?”

“I can do some good there. It needs me.”

“New York doesn’t?” Tim asked.

“Wonder Woman’s in New York, the Teen Titans are based in New York; it can do without me.”

Tim nodded. “When do you leave?”

Again, Dick watched Tim’s expression. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Does Bruce know? And Alfred?”

Dick shook his head. “I’ll tell ‘em later. I’m not going straight to Bludhaven… I have some things I need to take care of in New York, first. But it’s definitely happening.” Dick didn’t tell Tim that he’d rented an apartment several months ago, and had kept the rent on it even when Bruce was gone, hoping that it would all work out. His prayers had been answered. Bruce had returned, and Tim had proven he was worth his weight in batarangs when he'd fought Drakon. It was time for him to move on.

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Dick seated himself at the dining table moments before Alfred walked in with a tray laden with his favorite meal. The butler even poured him a Zesti, breaking his own rule of not drinking soft drinks at meal times. Dick looked up in surprise, and saw Alfred’s wink.

“So you know,” he said.

Alfred smiled. “For awhile now, Master Dick. I have simply been waiting.”
Dick smiled. You’d think, after years of living in the Manor, he wouldn’t be surprised that Alfred knew things about him even before he did. “I’ll be in New York awhile before I can go to Bludhaven. It’s still close enough that I can continue to work with the Titans, but they need to know I won’t be there otherwise.”

“You’re telling Miss Koriand'r tonight,” Alfred said. He didn’t ask. He stated. Once again, Dick marveled at his old friend’s insight.

“That’s the plan. Then the rest of the Titans later.”

“Very well, Master Dick,” Alfred said, pouring the Zesti into a glass. The ice clinked softly as the dark fluid rose. Dick finished the meal quickly so that he’d have enough time to work with Tim after lunch. When he had finally packed and was on his motorcycle to leave for New York and his date, Alfred and Tim were there to say goodbye. Dick caught the butler looking disapprovingly toward the ancient grandfather clock, knowing that Alfred thought that Bruce should be there as well. Even if Bruce had died, his old habits had not.

“He’s busy,” Dick shrugged. He had come to understand Bruce a lot better after having had to deal with most of his business, including Batman. He didn’t approve of everything that Bruce did, but he understood him more now. The events of the last few months had changed everything and, at the same time, nothing. Bruce was still Batman, Dick was still Nightwing, and Bruce was still the same. But Dick was okay with that. He hopped on his motorcycle after a quick goodbye, heading back to New York, this time for awhile, instead of the constant back-and-forth of the past few months.

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Kory and Dick strolled out of the restaurant, chatting easily for an hour or more before they parted. Kory’s kiss still lingered on his lips, and Dick felt guilty. All he had been able to think about when Kory had kissed him had been the horrible nightmare he had lived under the influence of Scarecrow, when he’d had to choose between Kory and Barbara. The memory of Kory’s blood, and of Babs’ wide green eyes, still stuck with him months later, permanently etched into his mind. He felt a lingering guilt for the choice he had made in his nightmare—and for the relief he had felt when he realized who he had chosen.

As he walked into his apartment, he glanced at the cluttered room and the dusty countertop. Sure, he’d been in several times in the past few months, but that had just been to crash. He hadn’t really lived here for months, having divided his time between Gotham and Brazil. He picked up the pile of mail that had accumulated in the doorway, stacking it with the rest of it on the table. He’d look at it in the morning. Switching on the television, he watched the news disinterestedly, until a story of a serial killer in Bludhaven came on. If he were in Bludhaven, he’d have stopped the guy by now. He knew he would’ve. Turning the TV off, he went to bed, sleeping uneasily as he dreamed of fighting crime in Bludhaven.

The next morning, he went to the office to talk with Rachel Green. She had been sympathetic when she had heard of Bruce’s death, and overjoyed at his return. Dick was grateful that she hadn’t filled his position yet, and gladly started back to work that afternoon. While copying files, he glanced down at the newspaper beside the machine, and started reading the front page. There was another article about the murderer the newspaper had deemed a serial killer from the night before, and he read it eagerly. Ten killings in thirteen days… Dick wondered if they were random or somehow related. After work, he was back on his home computer, researching the murder victims. He picked up the phone, dialed and waited until someone picked up, and a familiar voice spoke.

“Hey, Babs.”

“Hey, yourself! How’s life going? Tim said you’re back in New York?”

“Yeah, for the time being… Listen, have you heard anything about that serial killer in Bludhaven?”

“Of course, it’s all over the news,” Babs replied. “I did some research, and I think we have an assassin— not necessarily a serial killer. I think they’re all related to a drug ring based in Bludhaven. The last three were ex-drug pushers who’ve worked for the same group in the past few months.”

“So, they left the gang?”

“Some of them,” Babs responded. Dick could hear her keyboard clicking madly as she typed. “Some were actively involved. Others weren’t directly involved, but maybe there could still be some connection I haven’t looked into yet?”

“Maybe. I’ll look into it,” Dick said. “I came up with the same stuff on my own.”

“Thinking of making a trip down there?” Babs asked knowingly.

“I might,” Dick said. “We’ll see how things go here.”

“Let me know what you find out,” Babs said. “I’ve gotta go, I’m going to start patrol soon.”

“Cool, talk to you later.” Dick hung up the phone and leaned back in his seat. Bludhaven wasn’t that far away, but he had responsibilities in New York first. Maybe after those were taken care of, he could go check out Bludhaven.

Four days later, he’d changed his mind. Two people had been killed by someone with the same M.O. as the Bludhaven murderer. Dick investigated, trying to discover whether it was the same killer or a copycat. Both victims had been shot three times, and the murders had taken place in the middle of the night, just like the other victims in Bludhaven. The bullets matched the same Beretta Storm semiautomatic. As far as Dick could tell, the murderer was the same as the one in Bludhaven… and if he was right and the killer followed the same pattern, there would be another murder the next night.

On patrol the next night, he foiled a few robberies and delivered a mugger to a policeman. Between battles, he listened constantly to the police scanner. As the hours dragged on and the minutes ticked by, he stayed glued to it. When two o’clock rolled around, he was on edge. The assassin would strike soon. He could feel it. At 2:45 a.m., a report of a murder a few blocks east came over the scanner, and he was on his way before the dispatcher could finish. Arriving ten minutes after the report was issued, he was the first on the scene, and witness to a woman screaming and wailing to someone over the phone as she stared at the bloody body of a man in the next room.

“I was in the bathroom,” she managed, “and there were gunshots and… omigosh… when I came back, he… he was lying there and he wasn’t breathing and someone helllllp…” He hated doing it, but he left her there wailing as he dashed out, hoping to find some clue to the murderer’s path. He found nothing; it seemed that the killer had just walked in the front door, shot the man, and walked out.

By the time Nightwing made it back, four cops were checking the grounds, as two others interviewed the woman.

“Find anything?” One of the officers, Jackson, asked Nightwing. He lit a cigarette as he glanced around, as though hoping to find some clue.

Nightwing shook his head. “Gone, just like in the other murders.”

“Chief says they’re all related to that Onyx gang in Bludhaven,” Jackson said. He shook his head. “Gibson, here, was on parole for pushing drugs. Just got out of jail four months ago.”

Nightwing nodded slowly. “We’re going to need a list of who all is involved in it. See if we can figure out who the next victim is.” The police scanner squawked at that moment, and Jackson glanced at Nightwing as he turned up the volume. They listened for a few seconds before each raced to their vehicle.

“I guess that answers your question,” Jackson called back as he slammed his car door shut. Tires squealed as he and three other patrol cars in the area headed to the next crime scene. Nightwing sped down a different, less busy route, intent on his mission.

“Don’t even go to the house,” Nightwing said over the radio. “Just patrol the perimeter from a few blocks out. He’ll be gone before we get there.” Affirming replies came over the radio, as well as a gruff command to mind his own business. Nightwing shrugged that last one off. He parked his motorcycle a block from the crime scene and went the rest of the way on foot. If this killer had a radio on him, he would know that the police weren’t even in the immediate area.

But he would think that Nightwing was with them.

Night-vision goggles helped immensely as Nightwing quickly skimmed over the area from a nearby rooftop. The huge shadows between the street lights were all possible places for the murderer to be hiding. He waited patiently, listening to the frustrated reports from the surrounding police officers. Sooner than he would have liked, they gave up, after a rant from the chief, and headed in to check out the crime scene. Nightwing watched carefully from his vantage point, hoping to see the killer moving to escape the incoming officers.

His efforts were rewarded when a shadow from against the wall of a home three houses from the crime scene moved quickly across the lawn to a waiting motorcycle. Swinging down the street, Nightwing took off at a run, intercepting the motorcycle’s path as it sped down the street. Standing directly in front of it, he watched as the driver swerved in surprise. He fully expected it to wipe out, but the driver somehow managed to keep it upright, steering it through two yards and onto a neighboring street.

“Apprehend the motorcyclist on Liberty Avenue,” he barked into the radio. “Suspect in tonight’s Gibson and Kings murders.” He reached his bike quickly and took off after the bike.

“License, make and model?” a cop questioned.

Nightwing rattled off the license plate number and motorcycle description, keeping his own eyes peeled for it. A few minutes later, an excited reply came over the radio.

“Suspect sighted,” the voice said. “In pursuit now, up on Orchard Avenue, by the statue.” There was a pause. “Think I’ve got him, closing in now. Gonna need backu—” A loud shattering sound came through the speakers, and then a scream. “Under fire, he’s shooting—” There was a sickening explosion and squishing noise before a loud crash. After a shocked pause, a volley of excited and concerned questions flooded the radio.

Nightwing grimly passed by the patrol car that was halfway through a storefront window, knowing that the cop who’d been driving it had been killed before the wreck. An ambulance was less than a block away, with more emergency workers mere minutes down the road. Nightwing’s concern was to find the shooter now, before he found a hiding place, or worse, left the area. He had just killed a cop, and would now become the most hunted man in the surrounding counties. Nightwing searched for the rest of the night, even as he continued to respond to every tip that came in, but all the trails were dead.

At daybreak he crawled wearily into bed, knowing he’d need the few hours’ sleep he would get before work and his next patrol. When he awoke, he made it through the workday, thanks to three espressos and an iced coffee he downed on his way back to his apartment.

The city was abuzz with the news of the cop murder the night before, and patrol that night was quieter than it had been since the Darkseid’s Parademon attacks. It seemed that on the streets were too dangerous, even for those who did their business best in the shadows of the night.

At 3:00, a report came in of a murder, with an M.O. matching that of the previous murders. After finding out that the bullets were from a Browning, Nightwing doubted that the killer was the same.

“Great. Think we’ve got a copycat,” he remarked grimly to one of the cops on the scene. Officer Jackson nodded in weary agreement, looking up from his notebook for a moment.

“Last thing we need right now,” he said. All of the officers present looked drained and on-edge, but all were more determined than before. Nightwing had to admire them; some had probably gotten even less sleep than his three hours.

The radio squawked again. “…homicide at 24 East Fury…” was all Nightwing needed to hear before he was on his motorcycle and on his way. He knew the cops would be right behind him. He arrived at the crime scene, immediately noticing that this, too, was different. The other murders had all occurred in the victims’ homes, whereas the last had been in a parking lot, and this one was in a parked car at a traffic meter. The two cops who were already on-scene were obviously shaken. Nightwing glanced at the bloody mess in the car, carefully averting his gaze from the victim’s frozen horrified stare. The body was slumped to the side, against the armrest and front passenger seat. Three bullet holes were in the body; two in the torso and one through the head.

“Same M.O., except for the location,” he remarked to a nearby officer. Then he stopped and peered closer. Jackson jogged over from his patrol car.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones who hate copycats,” Nightwing said grimly. At Jackson’s confused stare, he held up a crumpled note he’d gingerly extracted from the victim’s hand.

“’I murdered Kings’”, the officer read the succinct note tersely. He paused. “The guy we’re after killed the copycat who murdered Kings?”

Nightwing’s shoulders lifted slightly in a defeated shrug. “Looks like it,” he said. He frowned. “It’s already 4:15, though.”

“So?” Jackson stared at him blankly.

“So, the other murders all took place between 2:00 a.m. and 3:30 a.m.” Nightwing replied thoughtfully. “This one took place just before 4:00, which makes sense, since it is out of the pattern anyways. But why wasn’t another victim—one originally on the list—killed?”

“Laying low after killing Officer Bradley?” one cop suggested.

Jackson gestured to the dead man beside him. “You call this laying low? Nah, I think Nightwing’s got a point. Whoever it is, he’s still in town, and still in business.”

“Get a background on Kings,” Nightwing said.

“The guy the copycat murdered?” This from the other cop.

It was Green in the billiard room with the candlestick… the childhood game came to his mind as Nightwing and the officers puzzled out the crimes.

Jackson was following the plan. “You think that this guy got to the intended victim first.” Nightwing nodded.

“Which means that there’s some sort of plan--one that the copycat could discover.” He was frustrated, and slightly embarrassed that a street thug had been able to discover the pattern before he could.

“Well, the only other guy we know of that knew has his brains blown out all over the seat,” the other cop, Brown, said in frustration.

“We’ll find it,” Nightwing said determinedly. “And then we’ll stop him.”

Brown nodded but looked skeptical. Jackson was already leaning into his car window, requesting a background on both the copycat and his victim. He returned a few moments later as the EMTs were loading the copycat’s bloody corpse into an ambulance. “The bullets in Kings don’t match those of the ones in the other victims,” he informed Brown and Nightwing. “Not that that’s a surprise.”

“When we get the background on the copycat, Robert Murray, maybe there’ll be a link to the victims and the other murderer.” Nightwing was hopeful. This would be the first real lead on this guy.

Jackson and Brown nodded. “And keep alert tomorrow night. If we can only get an idea on who might be the next victim…” Brown said. He paused, and glanced around. “…Nightwing?”

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Peeling off his mask and sweat-stained suit, Dick nearly fell over in exhaustion. At his computer, he spent two hours getting backgrounds on Kings and Murray. Both were relatively easy, as both victims had criminal files. Each of the two victims had some affiliation with a gang, but there were differences—Kings had been arrested while gunning for a New York gang, while Murray had been involved in Bludhaven’s Onyx, the same gang some of the earlier victims had been involved with. Others had been in the Hawks, the New York gang, while still other victims had no record with either gang at all. Frustrated, Nightwing fell into bed to catch an hour’s nap before work.

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“You look like death,” his supervising lawyer commented when he walked in. Nightwing mumbled something about a party the night before as he gulped his Starbucks. At the end of his shift, he was on autopilot, as he drove home and suited up. He grabbed a cold slice of pizza from the fridge as he walked out.

Driving by some modest homes, he stopped across the street from one, checking the address. He had stopped by Bill’s Bar, earlier, and talked to his semi-faithful informant over a glass of ginger ale. Bill had told him that a few of his customers were in the New York Hawks gang, headed by a man named Raulerson, on Orpheus Street. Nightwing glanced at the nice two-stories around him. This would be it. He had to find out how the murders of the victims and the copycat were related. It was time to pay Raulerson a surprise visit.

He crept up to the house slowly, entering through a back window as silently as a ninja. He knew that Raulerson would probably have at least one gun within easy reach of his bed. After he was sure that the house was quiet, he searched through the gang lord’s computer, searching for something, anything, he could use. He was still bent toward the computer screen, when he saw a shadow move across the light of the computer monitor. Whipping around, he had a nightarang in his hand and flying across the room even as he dove to the side behind a recliner. Muffled gunshots exploded wildly as Nightwing glanced out at the man’s panicked and pained expression. The forearm of his gun hand was bleeding profusely but, powered by adrenaline and fear, the man was still shooting away. Nightwing tossed another nightarang that completely incapacitated him. Disarming him, the young vigilante set him in the recliner he’d used for cover.

“What do you know about the hits on members of the Hawks and the Onyx?” He demanded.

The man quaked in front of him, holding his bleeding arm and hand. How he had ever become the leader of a tough gang of criminals was beyond Nightwing. “Nothing,” he said. “Why would I order hits on my own men?”

“Did you order them on Onyx?” Nightwing interrogated him brusquely. It was 12:30, and he knew that it wouldn’t be long before there was a new victim.

“Nuh—no, not on them.” The man winced, drawing his arm closer to his chest. Finally, he glared at Nightwing. “I have nothing to do with any of this. Believe me, I want that idiot iced. He’s killed some of my best men.”

“Any idea why? What reason would he have for killing them?” Nightwing persisted, resisting the urge to glance at his watch.

“No. Look, I don’t know anything.” He was really angry now. Nightwing backed up toward the window, believing that the man really was clueless. “You barged in here and attacked me! I’m gonna…” His voice trailed off.

Nightwing smirked. “Might wanna learn to shoot with your left hand now,” he said, disappearing through the window. On his motorcycle once more, he went on patrol, considering his next move. He was now in the killer’s timeframe, and all he had were faint clues, nothing that would help him prevent another murder. There was plenty of chatter on the radio as policemen, well aware that the clock was ticking, debated where to patrol. Frustrated, Nightwing switched channels.

“Batman. Are you there?”

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To be continued!

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