Nightwing: The Lost Case Files

Case # 1 – “The Ripper”

Chapter 6: The Price

“For an item specifically worn by the killer, it has a remarkably short story to tell.”

“That’s what I thought. I hoped a fresh pair of eyes would pick up something I’d missed.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Nightwing sat on a stool at the forensics worktable nestled deep in the caves underneath what the newspapers often referred to as ‘Stately Wayne Manor’. Dick had always hated the name. It was like something from the 40’s or 50’s: a title that conjured up a majestic and placid affair that hosted cotillions and masquerade balls or weekly lessons on etiquette, a place where men puffed on cigars in one room while women congregated in another and paired off their children in arranged marriages.

The truth was that, other than the spacious bedroom he enjoyed during his time in the manor, Dick had spent most of his waking hours in the cave beneath the mansion than in the poolroom or the game room. The cave, while stygian and foreboding to most, including but not limited to Superman, was Dick’s first official home… at least, the first one that didn’t pick up and move to the next town week after week.

Not born to privilege, Dick often found the manor stuffy and certainly quite boring. He’d been to museum’s that were more fun, but the cave… the cave was a place of wonder where you could get some dirt under your fingernails. Possibilities only an innocent child could see lurked around every corner.

It was here that he mastered martial arts and forensic science. It was here that he broke into many a hard sweat as he learned the precise way to throw an axe-kick or pick a lock. It was here, not above, that Bruce Wayne truly took Dick Grayson under his wing and trained him to become a man. It was here that he forged Dick, like a blacksmith turning a harmless piece of metal, so ripe with potential and yet ineffectual if not exploited by an expert, into a masterful fighting weapon against crime.

The first thing Bruce taught Dick to use was his brain. He was not the largest boy in the world, and he grew into only an average sized man, two and a half inches shorter than Bruce and about twenty-five pounds lighter.

“Size doesn’t matter. Strength doesn’t matter.” Bruce would always say.

“This isn’t pro wrestling. I’m bigger than you are. Does that mean I’ll always beat you? No, it doesn’t. You’re faster than I am. Use your speed. Don’t hit hard. Hit often and in advantageous nerve clusters. Use your intellect and prepare whenever possible for your opponents. Find their weaknesses, be they mental or physical. Exploit them fully. If you do that, it won’t ever matter how big and strong you are.”

The same lesson applied to deductive reasoning. The mind was the strongest, most valuable tool in any man’s arsenal. The serial killer targeting prostitutes in Bludhaven had thwarted him in the past. Was it luck? Did it matter? The point was, he was getting away with murder… in Nightwing’s city.

This would have to stop.

To that end, Nightwing had purloined a piece of the killer’s wardrobe, a black dinner jacket. He’d made his way to Gotham in hopes that the high tech equipment Bruce kept would help reveal some secrets about the killer. He’d run every kind of test he could think of.

He combed the jacket for hair follicles or skin that might allow a DNA scrape.

There was none to be found.

He checked again.

Still, he found nothing.

He checked a third time.

Thrice he came up empty handed.

He wondered how this could be possible. Technically, it shouldn’t be. Then he remembered that there was no forensic evidence left at the previous murder sights. He also recalled Raven’s warnings that these murders involved something from beyond this world. She called it, for lack of a better term, ‘The Devil’.

If magic was involved then anything was possible and they might not be able to trust their own senses. Standard forensic tests might not apply. It also meant that the Bludhaven police department wouldn’t be able to solve the crimes. With few exceptions, they were barely competent at the best of times.

Having no luck with a DNA scrape, he continued to run a barrage of tests, including a spectrometer test, of all things. He was incredibly disappointed to find that the jacket was as new, straight off the rack, having never been worn, at least where DNA was concerned.

When Bruce appeared at the bottom of the familiar steps that led to the cave clad in his cape and cowl, Nightwing was more than happy to allow his mentor a chance to examine the evidence. If anyone could pick up something Nightwing had missed, Batman could.

He was crestfallen when Batman announced his lack of success.

“Well that’s just great. Thanks for looking anyway, Bruce.”

“What’s your next step?” Batman asked. Nightwing smiled. They both knew full well what the next step was, but Bruce was always testing, always trying to keep his prized student on his toes.

“Even though it’s damn near impossible that the killer could run away from me at the speed he did and not even leave a sweat stain on the armpits of that jacket, I’m going to forget about what I don’t have and concentrate on what I do have. I’m going to tear that jacket apart, figuratively, of course, and analyze the threads, the make, anything I can. I’ll track down where it was sold and who to.”

A pencil thin smile flashed across The Dark Knight’s lips before disappearing completely. Anyone else would have missed it.

“Then I’ll leave you to it.”

Just then, another voice, this one also as familiar to Nightwing as his own reflection, interjected. Before he even laid his eyes on Alfred Pennyworth, Dick was smiling.

“Gentlemen, if I may interrupt, Master Dick will be quite displeased to learn that his prey is quite suddenly a very talked about individual. In fact, he’s the sensation of the local news.”

Dick swore under his breath. Though he was a man now, he still winced as Alfred, ever the proper gentleman, looked to him with disdain as he uttered the epithet. Pennyworth made his way to the computer stations and activated the news feed. All five monitors were suddenly alive in color and surround sound, each featuring a different local news feed. Unfortunately for Dick’s investigations, all five of them featured the same topic.

Grisly Murders In Bludhaven

Violence Against Women: Police Impotent

Shades Of Jack The Ripper

Is Anyone Safe?

Deranged Slayings Betray The Mind Of Diseased Maniac

These were the captions that led the nightly news reports across the Eastern seaboard. Dick wasn’t surprised, but he’d hoped the media blackout by the police would have proven itself a bit more effective. Unfortunately, he was never surprised when he underestimated the competence of the Bludhaven police force.

The last murder had been happened upon by a group of witnesses before the police had shown up to seal the scene. In this age of camera phones it was only a matter of time before someone recorded an image or a video, or in this case both, and sold it to the nightly news.

As expected, and as had happened previously in the original Jack The Ripper murders, the media was instantly whipped into a frenzy by the slayings. It didn’t help matters that for the past two weeks the only interesting news story that presented itself was the continuous storm clouds that blanketed the east coast… Bludhaven in particular.

“That’s the last thing I need… the last thing any of us needs.”

“It will make your job harder,” Batman admitted frankly.

“There could be copycat slayings now, too. That’ll just muddy the waters.”

“We have faith in you, Master Dick.” Pennyworth said as he clasped a warm hand on Nightwing’s shoulder. “Don’t we, Master Bruce?”

Batman was always reticent at times like this, but Nightwing had long moved past it. He appreciated Alfred’s attempt to get Batman to encourage the young man, which had proven a point of friction between them in the past, but recent events had mellowed The Dark Knight somewhat, and Nightwing as well.

“Of course we do. I’m needed in Gotham tonight but if you need me again, don’t hesitate to call,” Bruce called over his shoulder as he made his way to the armored assault vehicle known throughout the underworld as ‘The Batmobile’.

“Thanks,” Dick called back to him. “I will. I might need to call on your eyes once again.”

With that, the vehicle roared to life and charged from the cave like a stallion from the starting gates at a racetrack, disappearing quickly and leaving behind only a faint smell of diesel and a receding howl like a fierce cat in the distance. Dick was glad to have Bruce’s resources at his disposal, but he realized that he’d soon have to establish a similar base of operations in his own city. Until that time, the cave would have to suffice.

Nightwing returned his attentions to the dinner jacket. Without much effort, he identified the piece as a single-breasted, peaked lapel Brioni dinner suit. Bruce owned four of them. They were by no means cheap. The killer was well-heeled, not some homeless guy on a crack binge.

That also fit the skill level with which the mutilations were performed. Though, unlike in The Ripper’s day, your average human anatomy course could be found with the click of a mouse, it would still take great surgical skill to carry out the act so quickly and precisely. It was one thing to have the knowledge, it was quite another to be able to carry it out in a darkened alley.

After examining the tag on the back of the coat, he could just make out a faint ink stamp over the Brioni label. Moments later he was arranging the tag in the clips of a powerful microscope.

“Something, sir?”

Nightwing clucked his tongue. “Maybe.”

He removed his right gauntlet as he adjusted the dials and brought the image into focus. There was something there, possibly the insignia or stamp of the actual vendor overlaid across the Brioni tag.

Upon realizing this, Nightwing made his way across the cave floor to a locked cabinet full of chemicals. He entered his personal key code into the number pad and it hissed open. From the cabinet, which contained a variety of deadly chemicals among other, more innocuous things, he removed a vial and a brush. He then returned his attention to the tag on the jacket and very carefully used the brush to apply a thin layer of the solution to the material.

“This is a solution Bruce and I came up with years ago. It’ll help raise the ink of the faded stamp over the Brioni tag for just a few minutes without damaging the material itself or destroying evidence. I’m feeding the microscope image into the monitor screen so you can see it too.”

As promised, the image was fed into the main monitor and Alfred watched in amazement as the inked stamp began to increase in its clarity. It appeared to resemble a kind of stylized crown with the letters ‘O’ and ‘R’ inside and the number ‘0089’ beneath that.

“Well, the good news is that we have a clear picture of the stamp. The bad news is that I have no idea what it means. Hopefully, Barbara will.”

He activated the dedicated and secured VOIP communications line.

“Barbara, I’m sending you an image file tagged ‘label1’. I need you to run it through all the registered trademarks and logo databases that you can find, please. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that it’s probably a smart idea to start your search in Bludhaven.”

Instantly, her crisp, digitally encoded response came over the speakers.

“Easier done than said. I’m all over it.”

Nightwing relaxed back into the comfortable, high-backed, ergonomically designed leather chair that Bruce kept for his use and realized that Alfred was staring silently at him. With nothing left to do but wait for results, Dick turned his attention to one of his oldest, kindest friends.

“Was it something I said?” He asked nonchalantly.

“You appear… how should I say it? You appear disturbed and rather pale.”

Dick fumed. He was always an open book to Alfred. He wasn’t sure if he liked it at times, and yet at others he was incredibly grateful for the old man’s intuitiveness.

“Well, despite not having seen the sun in half a month, these murders have really disturbed me.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I’d thought you desensitized to some degree. You have been encountering the worst of mankind for some time now.”

“In some ways I suppose I am, Al, but in all my years of doing this, I’ve rarely seen murders like this. Even The Joker could learn a thing or two about insanity from whoever committed these crimes. These prostitutes aren’t just being killed, they’re being slaughtered and surgically dismembered, their entrails arranged in neat little piles and designs. The media is, as always, making it worse than it really is, but there’s no need. It’s bad enough as it is.”

“There’s something else bothering you, though.”

Nightwing smiled. “I can’t put anything past you. You’re right. There is something else bothering me. I’ve never been good with violence against women. I saw my share of it even as a kid. Sometimes when things were slow at a circus, a few men would start to drink and it would cause them to hurt the ones they loves, but then, what The Joker did to Barbara, that really sent my revulsion factor for this kind of thing through the roof. I have a low tolerance for woman hating. My mother was a woman, after all. I think of Barbara, or even Kory, even though she could easily defend herself, suffering that kind of end, and my blood boils.”

Alfred chuckled. “I share your disgust for these animals.”

“It doesn’t help that whoever is doing this is targeting prostitutes. They’ve already been discarded and forgotten by society. Of all those news reports you just turned on, I didn’t see any mentioning the safety of women who walk the streets at night, many of them just so they can pay their rent or feed their kids by performing soul crushing sex work.”

“Then I thank God they have you to protect them, Master Dick. You’ve always been a champion of the underdog. With you in their corner I suspect all be well before long.”

“I hope so,” Dick shot back, his tone more than slightly agitated. “Raven says the killer is employing some kind of magic. I think I’m the only one who hates magic more than Bruce.”

At that moment, Oracle’s ID signal pinged over the computer and Nightwing activated his monitor and microphone.

“That was fast.”

“I happen to be the very best at what I do… and who would know that better than you?”

Blushing slightly at Alfred’s arched eyebrow, Dick shrugged it off.

“So what’s the story?”

“The logo belongs to one of the only top level clothing retailers in Bludhaven. Being a whaling town filled with blue-collar workers, there aren’t a lot of expensive clothiers in your town. This particular logo belongs to Ori Rosenbaum’s ‘Kingly Clothes For Discriminating Gentlemen’. It seems Ori is a 72-year-old tailor who’s been a cornerstone of Bludhaven business for over 50 years. He puts that stamp on everything he sells, including his Brioni suits. I can’t identify the numbers, though.”

Nightwing smiled broadly. “I suppose I’ll just have to ask him. All right. Now we’ve got something.”

As Ori Rosenbaum closed his shop that night, as he did every night for the past 52 years, a hand gently rapped on the door just as he turned the ‘open’ sign over to ‘closed’. Rosenbaum was an immigrant who worked hard nearly every day of his adult life, plying his trade as a top level tailor in a town known for its love of denim and off the rack wear, for decades. He was tough and smart, artistic in his own way and fully dedicated to his craft. When Bruce learned that the trail of this new ‘Ripper’ led to Ori Rosenbaum, he divulged that his father, Thomas Wayne, once owned two Rosenbaum custom made suits.

He may have been tough and intelligent, but Rosenbaum was also a very old man. A slight hump protruded from his back and his fingers were desperately cramped with arthritis, and yet still he worked. However, Nightwing had no wish to give this old man a heart attack.

Normally, he would appear inside the shop, emerging from the shadows as if he were one of them and intimidate the information from the man or woman that held it. In this case he just knocked on the front door.

By now, ‘Ripper’ frenzy had gripped Bludhaven. The streets were nearly deserted after dark, and dark came early when a vast curtain of dark rain clouds had settled, seemingly permanently, over their city.

Only those that absolutely had to be downtown dared show their faces, and then only in groups. Even the infamous nightlife along ‘The Spine’ had dwindled to a fraction of its normal population. The air was thick with tension as a cold rain continued to drive down hard, punishing any who ventured out.

Strip clubs were nearly empty. The dancers and performers walked to work in groups. The bar scene was nearly dead. No one cared to venture out and lose their senses, stumbling into an alley to relieve themselves only to be mangled by The Ripper’s knife. Anyone with any sense stayed at home behind locked doors and windows.

Only the police force was out in any appreciable numbers. Squad cars passed in every direction, always on the lookout for anyone suspicious even though the darkness that permeated the city offered many a deep shadow for anyone to hide in.

Rosenbaum peered outside, a genial smile on his face. “I’m sorry, young man, but I’m about to close for the evening.”

Dick stepped inside, cutting his usual handsome figure in a plainclothes uniform. It wasn’t actually his true uniform: that was in his locker at police headquarters. This was more of a disguise, though he made no attempt to hide his true face. He did possess a false I.D. to show Rosenbaum, however.

“I’m afraid this is a police matter, sir. I’m Officer Barry Allen of the G.P.D.”

Rosenbaum looked curious. “How can I help you?”

“Like the rest of the force, I’m working on what the media is calling ‘The Ripper Case’. I’ve tracked a piece of evidence to this establishment. Can you identify this symbol?”

Dick handed over a high definition printout of the tag and the logo stamped over it. Rosenbaum donned a pair of old style spectacles that were hanging around his neck and examined it.

“Yes, that’s one of mine, all right.”

“Can you tell me what the numbers mean, sir?”

The tailor nodded. “Of course. I individually stamp every piece of clothing I sell with its own identification number. We record the number and in that way the owner always gets back the same piece of clothing they send to us for tailoring and alterations and such.”

Dick’s pulse jumped. “Are you saying this number can be traced to the jacket’s owner?”

Rosenbaum nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.”

“Can you identify this one?”

The kindly old tailor nodded once more and disappeared behind his desk as he leafed through a series of ledgers. There was no sign of a computer in the business. Rosenbaum was in every way an old school businessman. After several moments of waiting, in which Dick inspected the old man’s wares and immediately decided that he himself would have to purchase a suit here, the tailor snapped his fingers.

“Yes, it’s here.”

Dick ran to the ledger and eyed the entry that Rosenbaum presented, scrawled in faded blue ink, doubtlessly in Rosenbaum’s handwriting.

“It says here you sold this jacket to a Dr. Wolfgang Handrick.”

“That’s correct. He lives in Boulderwood Estates near Avalon Hill, just by Thrawn Park. It’s a very ritzy place, up there. He’s been a loyal customer for years.”

Gotcha.

“Thanks. You’ve been of great assistance,” Dick said as he turned on his heel.

“Perhaps I could interest you in a new suit. I saw you once before fighting a gentleman named… Charon, or some such thing, in the city a while back. Mr. Nightwing… isn’t it?”

Dick stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to eye the aged tailor. “How did you know?”

“I’m a tailor, sir. I know police uniforms, even plainclothes ones, when I see them, and what you’re wearing isn’t one. I can presume you’re name isn’t Barry Allen, can I?”

“True enough.” Dick saw no reason to lie to an old, harmless man, no matter how sharp he was.

“I appreciate what you do in this city, son. A lot of us do. If you ever need a suit, please let me know and I’ll do all I can.”

Dick smiled. ‘So much for coming here as Dick Grayson and buying a new suit.’ He thought to himself.

“How hard is it to sew Kevlar?”

Rosenbaum smiled. “Son, I could sew two sheets of aluminum together and make you look good.”

“Thanks. I might just do that.”

With that, he exited the building and made his way to a nearby alley, where he scaled a fire escape and donned his Nightwing uniform. As he made his way across the rooftops and somersaulted through the night air, illuminated for a brief second by a flash of lightening, he opened a communications channel to Oracle.

“Honey, I need the exact address of one Dr. Wolfgang Handrick. He lives near Thrawn Park, if that will help narrow down the results.”

Even over the earpiece, Barbara’s excitement was palpable. “Is this our killer we’re talking about?”

“It looks very possible.”

“Here it comes now,” She replied as the data was fed into his gauntlet monitor. With a smile he embarked on the hunt once more.

When he arrived at 1788 Boulderwood Crescent, adjoining Thrawn Park, Nightwing disembarked from the top of the bus and began to reconnoiter around the home of Dr. Handrick. It was light but there were a few lights on inside. He retrieved the phone number of the home from an online directory and connected to a line. A woman’s voice answered.

“Dr. Handrick’s residence. This is Marion Bradley speaking. How can I help you?”

Nightwing called up his voice mimicry talents and produced a faux Bostonian accent as he addressed her. “Good evening. My name is Dr. Barry Allen and I’m sorry for calling so late. I have a difficult case I’m working on and would like to make an appointment to consult with Dr. Handrick. May I speak with him please?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Handrick is out of the house at this time. You can leave your number and I can get a message to him. Would that be sufficient?”
Out of the house. Why would a doctor be out of the house at this late hour, especially with the city in a blind state of panic? Unless… he was the new ‘Ripper’?

“Why thanks, but the information in this case is very sensitive. Perhaps I’ll call him tomorrow. Thanks for your time.”

He closed the connection.

“Dr. Wolfgang Handrick, just where are you?”

He decided it would be best to return to the city core and monitor the sights he’d designated as most likely to host the next Ripper attack. It was the perfect night for the murderer to strike again.

He eyed his latest victim from the back seat of his car as the rain pounded down all around them and fogged up the windows. Just four feet away she stood, rubbing her own shoulders for warmth as she hid from the rain under an awning. She looked desperate, and more importantly, she was in the right place… another key to locked door of dark power that he intended to open.

Already he could feel the changes within him from the first few sacrifices. He was stronger and faster, though not as strong and fast as the vigilante that pursued him, Nightwing. He was also invisible to technology and even shrouded to the human eye, at least to some degree. He could only imagine how powerful he’d become if he completed the ritual. A wicked smile crossed his lips as he opened the back door of the car and gestured to the woman on the sidewalk.

“It’s a wet night, my dear, and you look lonely. Maybe I could give you some company.”

She chuckled cynically. “For a price, yeah.”

“Oh yes,” He replied. “There will certainly be a price.”