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Detective Comics #5 - Original Sin (Part One) - "Libation"
By Michael Franzoni


"This isn't my kind of case, Jim. Not with so many open files surrounding the families," he argued, thumbing through the manila folder that had just been dropped on his desk. His mind reeled with thoughts of the weapons, drugs, and money that were now finding their way into the city, in exhorbitant amounts, and what methods existed to stop these transfers. And now, he was being presented with what appeared to be a murder case, something he would have rather assigned to Montoya and Allen. Sinking back into the chair, he looked up at his supervisor, the man who ran the bevy of Gotham's Police Department, and wondered what was coming next.

The Commissioner shook his head, standing silent and steady as he waiting for more argument to come. As Bock sat silently, Gordon countered, "It's your case now, Mack. I've got Renee pushing papers with the Westlake case, trying to close the file on that one. I can't slap another detail on her desk until I'm sure that's out of the way. So I'm pulling my next swingers up to bat. The families can sit for now. They'll be there when you come back. This needs to be handled quickly, before the trail gets too cold."

"And you want me to work with Bullock on this?" Bock asked, shaking his head but knowing full well that he wasn't going to get out of it. Jim Gordon respected his officers, but Bock knew better than to argue with the man, especially in light of Gordon's recent loss. "You are aware of how well we get along, right?"

"You'll find a way to work it out, at least for the duration of the case. Matters of investigation should take precedence over personal animosities, and I don't want to hear otherwise," Gordon replied, heading back toward the door and leaving Bock to sort through the details of the case.

Clearing a surface on his desk, MacKenzie unloaded the contents of the folder and spread them across the hard wood. Taking meticulous measures to sort the contents, he reached into his desk and extracted a handheld recorder, checked to make sure there was a tape inside, then depressed the record button. He started with the pictures, sifting through them as he spoke, "Female victim in her late twenties or early thirties, brown hair and blue eyes. Coroner pronounces death by drowning, but there are several lascerations around the back of her neck matching the left hand as well as stress marks along the scalp, indicating that the victim was forced to her death. There also appears to be blunt trauma to the left edge of the forehead, meaning that the victim was likely unconscious when brought to the crime scene then fought as the killer was finishing the deed."

"Girl probably met the guy somewhere, he whapped her upside the head, and dragged her to the finishing spot," Bullock said, interrupting Bock's analysis and strolling into the office. The Lieutenant tossed his overcoat onto the back of a chair and loosened his tie before sitting. "The stress around the scalp was probably a second hand-hold. He probably had her by the hair in one hand, and by the neck in the other. That way, he had the leverage and didn't really need to overpower her to keep her under."

"Interesting assumption, Harvey. If that's the case, then we have a long way to go before profiling this guy. If he'd overpowered her, we'd at least have an idea of his body type."

"That still ain't much to go on, but hey, keep reading."

"Victim's body was discovered in the basement of her place of employment, The Hawk's Nest Bar and Grill, where she was employed as a waitress and barmaid. Autopsy reveals a large presence of alcohol in her system, primarily in the stomach and lungs," Bock responded, adding notes to his previous recordings.

Bullock crossed his left leg atop his right and grinned back, saying, "Yep, that's right. She was drowned in a big vat of wine. The beat boys found one of the basement sinks plugged and filled to the brim with quite a bit of merlot, most of it from the employer's inventory."

"Do we think it's a crime that matches her profession? Maybe an angry customer that got turned down when he made a pass at her?"

"Probably not. Owner tends bar at night, said there were only a few folks in the bar the night before he found her, and none of the bunch were raising a fuss over anything. Questioned him myself, but he doesn't remember anyone out of the ordinary, just the buncha mothballs that usually frequent the joint," Bullock provided as answer. The smirk stayed on his face as he watched Bock moving through the file, one photo at a time, one report page at a time. "You ain't gonna find much more in there. I promise you that. Figured we should take a ride down to the crime scene and see what we can find, maybe get a feel for how the girl walked herself into it."

"You think it's her fault?"

"Gotta start somewhere, right? In homicide, the game's played this way, Bock. You identify with the perp, because ultimately, he's the one you're trying to catch. You sympathize with the victim, and then you're just skewing your own vision," Bullock said, standing from his seat and grabbing his overcoat. He headed for the door without checking to see if Bock was following, intent upon his destination.

He was stopped at the door to the office as Montoya blocked his way. Peering over his shoulder, her eyes were bloodshot and buried beneath dark circles as she looked straight at Bock and said, "Sorry to interrupt boys, but you looks like you've got a second victim. And this one's still fresh."


The scene was grim and dark, a bleaker reflection of the neighborhood itself. The early morning was mired in a dismal rainstorm, and a cold wind swept through the streets of Gotham's impoverished backstreets. He closed his eyes in sympathy for the victim and tried to clear his mind. He crept down the stairs of the shelter and rounded the corner. Spotting Bullock at the edge of the police barricade, he asked, "The girl inside's a wreck. She's sitting with a staff psychiatrist, but I don't think we'll be able to get too much out of her if this comes to court. Some people just don't respond well to trauma. You a religious man, Harvey?"

Bullock bit down on his cigar and grimaced, responding. "There's only three things I believe in, Bock. This cigar is one of them, and if the other two aren't donuts and Spencer Tracy, then they got no place in my world. I live my life at the station. Don't have much time for anything that ain't up-my-alley."

"Doesn't that make your life a little one-dimensional? Where's the meaning?"

"Hey, I try different kinds of donuts every now and then. Keeps things from getting boring. Now, can we get back to the matter at hand?" Bullock shot back, leading the charge toward the victim. He wasn't here to make friends, and his actions were designed to communicate that to Bock, who followed from a couple steps back.

The woman was pale, a reflection of pure white not often seen in skin intonation. Her raven hair was soaked through and plastered to her skin, nearly obscurring her facial features. Raising a gloved hand to her prone body, Bock examined the woman and said, "She's been here for awhile. Probably all night. Maybe longer. There are rope burns on her wrists and ankles. Even the gag is showing some wear and tear. Which means she tried to get herself loose. My God, Harvey, who could have done such a thing?"

"Well, that's what we're here to find out, isn't it? How come nobody found her til now? There's a lot of people that come in-and-out of this shelter. Lotta low-lifes that people wanna keep an eye on. Seems to me that someone woulda seen or heard something."

"The body was left out of view from the doors and windows. One of the night desk girls received a letter around six o'clock this morning. Only thing in the envelope were these two pictures," Bock responded, passing Bullock a pair of ziplock bags, each containing a polaroid shot. "The first one's a photo of the victim back when she was still alive. Recognize the second?"

"I'll be damned," Bullock said, his mouth hanging open and his cigar tumbling to the ground below. "This is the chick from the bar -- that waitress that drowned in the basement -- except she's alive here. What the hell is this writing on the back?"

"That's why I asked if you were a religious man."

"Give drink to the thirsty," Bullock read, a blank expression spreading across his face. He flipped the first picture behind the second and continued, "Give shelter to strangers. You got an explanation for this, Bock, or you just gonna wave it over my head?"

Bock didn't respond at first. Instead, he waved a couple officers from the sidelines and ordered, "Cut this poor girl down and get her down to the coroner's office. The shelter's going to send their ledger over to the precinct. I want the package placed on my desk. No one's to touch it." Shoving his hands in his pockets and shivering beneath an imaginary breeze, Bock turned back toward Bullock and remarked, "Poor girl probably died from exposure. The weather hasn't been too friendly lately. Bet she worked here, too."

Slamming the back of his hand into Bock's chest and forcing the bagged photos back into his hands, Bullock countered, "Answer my question, MacKenzie."

"Gluttony. Greed. Lust. Pride. Envy. Anger. Sloth. The seven deadly sins of Christian dogma. They're the sure-fire way of going to hell, or at least that's what the priests preached in my early church-going days. It was their way of putting the fear of God into you. But I guess it was just a bit too grim and gritty for even the most stalwart souls, because they came with their corresponding virtues -- ways to get in good with God and earn your place at his side. These were two of them."

"So instead of your usual religious nutball, we're looking for his opposite number? Doesn't give us a whole lot to go on," Bullock remarked. Turning back toward the end of the crime scene, he walked away, saying, "This is getting a little bit too involved for my likes, Mac. But hey, you think you got something with that virtue stuff, I suggest you fill the rest of us in before we gotta go through five more scenes like this."


They were amazing -- or so he thought -- as they worked their way through the scene he had left them. He had given them the first pieces - called the location of the waitress in to her boss and left the photos for the night desk woman. He was feeding them, guiding them on the steps and waiting for them to learn the dance on their own. And what a glorious dance it would be.

The girl had been selected because of the long hours she devoted to the center. She was the heart of their staff, the type of volunteer that inspired even those who were paid to be there. Her devotion made her the shining example he had been seeking. Her long hours ensured that her departure would be noticed quickly -- just the way he wanted it. The game was to be played quickly, and every decision was made with expediency in mind.

Turning from the crowd of police officers, news crews, and spectators, he began a lonely walk down the street. His mind spelled through the steps he had taken thus far and the steps that remained. There were clues that they had missed - some that would lay forever in obscurity and others that they would find with the help of experts - but he would have further chances to play with them, further chances to learn their motivations and nuances.

The partnership was surprising, the first change in pace from his plans. He had been betting on the female and her New Gothamite partner. Instead, he was playing against the assistant to the Commissioner and the gristled cop that nobody could befriend. Bock was already wearing down. He could tell by the slump in the black man's shoulders as he descended the steps of the shelter. Bullock, however, would be a different case. Nothing seemed to phase the man, and that would have to change.

Still, there was planning to do and another to take. Soon enough, the game would become more personal.


The waiting room was as cold and depressing as the operating theater. Even the smells of formaldehyde and decay were as strong. Bullock paced along the back wall, his heavy footsteps falling upon the cement floor like thunder. In contrast, Bock sat in a low-back chair, slumped down and contemplating the day's activities. He hated the waiting just as much as his partner, but he wasn't going to let his impatience show.

Inside the operating theater, the doctor laid the scalpel on the table and pulled his face shield down. His features wore a deep frown. As he approached the two officers, he eyed them through the glass porticos of the double-doors and pulled the latex away from his hands and threw the gloves into a hazardous waste bucket. Turning his gaze to the floor, he asked, "You want the long or the short version?"

He began to rise out of his chair, but before Bock could answer, Bullock spat out, "I've been sitting here for about an hour now without a decent cup of coffee. You can give us what we need to know. If there's a short way to do it, then go that way. Just don't leave anything out. We gave you two to work with, so it stands to reason that you go something to give back to us."

"Oh, I do, Lieutenant," the doctor answered. "The first girl died of liquid asphyxiation. Her lungs were filled with various wines, but mostly merlot. There are stress marks on the inside of her throat where she tried to force the liquid from her lungs and tried to scream. There are also marks of struggle on her neck and along her scalp, probably indications of a scuffle with her attacker..." ,p."We know this already, doc," Bullock interrupted, not wanting to waste his time any further. "We got the report, remember?"

"Of course. The second girl died from exposure to the elements, mostly from the cold. Hypothermia, if you will. As you noted, there were marks of struggle on her wrists and ankles, and also some around her waist and mouth -- marks from where she tried to wriggle her way off the stake. Her skin has buried fibers from her sweater and the rope, but nothing else of note. The killer was rather thorough in his cleanliness."

"Fingerprints?"

"Bodies were totally clean, even under ultraviolet. No signs of fingerprints or bodily fluids not belonging to the victims."

Bock had stayed silent through the report, digesting the facts as the doctor provided them. Everything had been as he expected them. Forensics had found similar results from the crime scenes and the photos. No external signs that would point to the killer, or even to the next killing. Raising his voice, Bock asked, "Anything of note or are we just barking up the wrong tree until the next victim comes in?"

"Yes there was one thing. Both victims had wax underneath their fingernails," the doctor said, his voice shifting to a curious intonation.

"What?" Bullock shouted out. "What the hell do they have wax under their fingernails for?"

"I can't be certain, Lieutenant. There are no other places where the wax is present, just beneath the fingernails. It's also the only thing -- other than their cleanliness -- that the two victims share," the doctor said, turning his back and heading back into the mortuary.

Watching through the window as the doctor pulled a sheet over the remains of the victims, Bullock turned to Bock and asked, "What the hell?"


Next Issue: Information on the victims begins to come in, and the partners learn that there may be a greater tie to the case that goes above the religious implications. Plus, the case comes closer to their personal lives as the killer takes steps to make his presence in Gotham more well-known.

Back Issues:
>>Detective Comics #5
Original Sin - Part One
"Libation"

>>Detective Comics #4
The Mystery Crime - Part Four
"Dark Omens"

>>Detective Comics #3
The Mystery Crime - Part Three
"Tempt Me With The Truth"

>>Detective Comics #2
The Mystery Crime - Part Two
"Opposing Forces"

>>Detective Comics #1
The Mystery Crime - Part One
"Sans Corpus"

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