[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/Jf0JJhG.jpg[/img]

[b]Part II:[/b]
[b]SNAPSHOT[/b]


[b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Globe[/i], 06/30/46[/b]
[b]DA FILES NO CHARGES IN BOXING PROBE[/b]

[b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Herald[/i], 08/21/46[/b]
[b]DA PORTER DECLINES SENATE BID[/b]

[b]EXTRACT: [i]Gotham Herald[/i], 10/10/46[/b]

[b]FOURTH WOMAN KILLED, POLICE SAY NO CONNECTION[/b]


The body of a woman found yesterday morning is the latest in a string of murders on Gotham City's west side. The victim, identified as twenty-eight-year-old Jane Lewis of a Dutch Hill address, was found just after three in the morning near a west side bar. Like previous victims, Ms. Lewis was killed by gunshot wound.

"There is no way these murders are connected," said Sgt. Max Eckhardt, squad sergeant in GCPD's Homicide unit and lead investigator of the case. "The similarities in question are too vague. Causes of death are the same, but that's it. There's nothing else that connects these crimes."

Despite denial from Eckhardt, sources say that Ms. Lewis' body was left in a manner similar to previous victims. What that is, sources will not reveal for fear of provoking copycats or false confessors. When pressed about the possibility of a connection, Sgt. Eckhardt remained placid. "Everyone's tendency is to always assume the worse. There is no way the same killer committed these murders."

Sgt. Eckhardt said that, regardless of the lack of connections, the GCPD is treating each and every unopened murder as serious as the next one. "There is no statute of limitations on murder," said Eckhardt. "And we will continue to look into the deaths of Ms. Lewis and the other girls who were murdered. Absolute justice is demanded." 

The GCPD are asking that anyone with relevant information regarding Ms. Lewis' murder and any of the other murders to come forward.


[b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Globe[/i], 11/6/46[/b]
[b]THORNE ELECTED TO SENATE IN LANDSLIDE[/b]


[b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Herald[/i], 11/14/46[/b]
[b]SIXTH BODY FOUND, POLICE ADMIT LINK TO OTHER MURDERS[/b]

[b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Gabber[/i], 11/20/46[/b]
[b]IS YOUR HUBBIE A MURDEROUS MANIAC? FIVE WAYS TO FIND OUT INSIDE![/b]

[b]BANNER: Gotham Globe, 12/01/46[/b]
[b]SOURCES: KILLER LEAVING PHOTOGRAPHS OF VICS AT CRIME SCENES[/b]

[b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Globe[/i], 12/19/46[/b]
[b]SNAPSHOT KILLER CLAIMS SEVENTH VICTIM, GCPD WARN WOMEN OF DANGERS[/b]



*****​[/center]



[b]December 21st, 1946[/b]
[b]Western Gotham City[/b]
[b]3:29 AM[/b]



Detective Jim Corrigan cruised the strip towards county territory, his sights on a shakedown sortie. Shakedown Jim, the Narco Nightshift Ne'er-do-well. He was the scourge of sycophantic scum and stimulant selling stooges. He'd pop pill peddlers and pilfer their prescription pile. He popped pills with aplomb. He dug the delirious dope high. This baaaaad bloodhound beats beaucoup bad bums and breaks the bones of bandits.

Jim rode a righteous rapture of speed and painkillers. A killer kombo kreated krazy kreations of the kranium. He cruised and saw Christmas trees melting and molting. He saw reindeer dripping blood from their snouts. Nobody out tonight. No whores walking the beat, no pimps plying their pugilistic power. No drug dealers digging on the diabolical dichotomy of their dreary lives.

Nobody out tonight because a psycho sought out senoritas to slash. Said psycho killer slaughtered with skill. Seven bodies stacked up in the moldy municipal morgue. The Snapshot shooter seriously spooked slum squatters. Nix on that. Tonight the big bad bloodhound bounced through blocks of blight to bag his blow.

Near the county line he pulled into a side alley. Nobody on the street, nobody on the corners. Nobody out to shakedown. A wasted night. Jim prepared to turn around. Headlights flashed on something in the road. A dead body. Corrigan parked. He lumbered out. He saw a dead girl. He saw photos on her body. He freaked. He ran back to the car and got on the radio.



[center]*****​[/center]



[b]Western Gotham City[/b]
[b]4:05 AM[/b]


Blue lights and arc lights illuminated the crime scene. A dead woman, face down in the cold mud. Two exit wounds on the back of the head. Disheveled clothing. Harness bulls in coats smoked cigarettes and drank coffee and mulled around. Shakedown Jim smoking with them. Police scientists en route, ditto on the brass.

Slam squatted by the body. Steam poured from his mouth. Just below freezing outside. Narco dick Corrigan stumbled upon her while chasing down a lead. Slam caught the squeal. He saw the photos on the back. Snapshots of the vic. She's squinting. She has her hand up to her face. She looks scared shitless. Last moments of her life before two bullets blow her brains out. The Snapshot Killer strikes again. Slam reported it back to Gotham Central. Max fucking Eckhardt was on the way.

The dead girl on the ground made it murder number eight of the spree. Eckhardt caught the first murder back in September. Homicide's first man up rule dictated he got stuck with any subsequent murders. Whiskey Max stuck with eight unsolved stiffs made Slam smile. The brass tried to downplay the snuffs and say they weren't connected. Slam got a little payback by leaking classified material to the papers. They broke the story wide and ran with it. It caused the brass grief, but it fucked Eckhardt up. Good. Fuck him, the blackmailing prick Slam stood. His knees popped. He bummed a smoke from a uniformed cop. He lit up and stared at the dead girl.

Six months in, Homicide was the pits. His rep was that of an enforcer and not a case man. Eckhardt bypassed him when he dished out assignments. He was always secondary on cases and assisted other detectives. Lt. Boyle’s mandate was a pussy one: no hitting suspects. Slam played psycho in Mutt and Jeff interrogations. Acted like he was gonna hit and then pull back at the last second. He could handle that if they would let him actually work cases. 

The Snapshot case was something interesting, but he got the shit work from it. He pined for the street. He kept in touch with Two-Gun Jack Grogan. His order was still good: Kill Max Eckhardt. Kill the fucker outright and come out of the cold and back to warming embrace of the mob squad. His hatred for Eckhardt burned as strong as Slam's. Slam did not want to kill Eckhardt outright. That was too easy. Slam wanted him to suffer. He wanted him to beg for mercy before he killed him.



[center]*****[/center]



Max got out the car. He pulled his coat close. Fields drove and served as secondary on the case. Max lugged his crime scene equipment, still tasting the bourbon in his mouth. A few shots to steady himself before he went out in the cold. Fields lit up a stogie and blew smoke. They passed under crime scene rope. Reporters already dogged the scene. And why not? A goddamn maniac was on the loose and they needed copy.

Three uniforms stood around a body. Slam Bradley off to the side smoking. Max felt prickles on the back of his neck. They worked together for sixth months now and hadn’t said more than two words to each other. They stayed out of each other’s way and liked it like that. Any conversation would be laced with rancor. Any discussions would devolve into hostility. Bradley: A thug who outright murdered a state's witness, yet [i]Max[/i] was the bad guy in this particular narrative. He sold his silence for rank. He bought a lieutenancy with extortion. Maybe there was something to Bradley's hatred.

Bradley wore a smirk. Max pegged it: He's getting a kick out of watching you flail. He likes seeing you with seven -- now eight -- murders on your cart. He wants you to fuck up and fail. Save for Charlie, they all want you to fail. They know you're next in line for promotion. They know when Boyle finally dies you'll be their boss. They're envious. They want what you have. They despise you because of all you have and will soon have.

Fields talked to Slam while Max examined the body. He ginglerly turned the body over and went to work. The victim matched the basic description of the previous seven. White female, somewhere in her twenties or thirties. Two bullet wounds in the head. Bullet wounds were the basic shape and hole of a .38, the killer's weapon of choice. Max glommed the pix on the body. Cheap film, washed out exposure. The victim crying, trying to resist. Her hands flailing and fighting back. Mark it as number eight on the Snapshot Killer's victim scorecard.

Charlie Fields walked over and said, "One of ours discovered the body. Corrigan out of Central Narco."

Max stood and said, "Shakedown Jim? Hopefully he's not high. The man is a disgrace."

Charlie winked. "I wouldn't be too quick to judge if I were you, Whiskey Max."

Max scowled. He pushed past Fields. The gaggle of cops gossiping like schoolgirls. They passed around a flask and snickered when they saw him approach.

One cop said, "Whiskey Max is here."

Another cop said, "He must have smelled hooch from clear across the street."

Slam shook the flask at Max and said, "I think his mouth is watering."

Max said, "Cut the crap before I have you all written up and suspended. A woman is dead over there, the eighth victim of a maniac. This is no time for jokes. Detective Corrigan, follow me to my car. I want your statement on your discovery of the body. I want everyone else canvassing the area right now to find out who saw her before her death, and if they saw anything else. If you have anything to report, find Detective Fields. Failure to comply with my orders will result in suspension and a potential trial board. Get to it."

Most of the cops high-tailed it. They amscrayed to get to work. Bradley drug his feet. He sulked and took his time. Max locked eyes with him.

"That means you too, Bradley. Do not make me repeat myself. I'll use big words like you pal, Two-Gun Jack: You will find that curlishness perturbs me."

Bradley stalked off. Corrigan and Fields traded looks that said what the hell was that all about? Max ignored them. He motioned for Corrigan to follow him. Fields headed out to canvass. They stopped at the dead body.

Max said, "Eight women are dead, Detective."

Corrigan ran a shaky hand across his poorly shaved face "The sick fuck is running roughshod over the goddamn city."

"Not for much longer."

Max said a silent prayer. A prayer for the dead girl's soul. A prayer for the previous seven dead girls. He prayed for safe passage of their soul. He prayed for divine retribution. He prayed for justice. He prayed for his own soul. His own divine intervention. He prayed for the strength to stop drinking.

He prayed to break the case wide open. Catching a killer like this would cement him in the PD, make his career, and make him nigh untouchable to demons like Bradley and Grogan. Max looked across the street. Bradley watched. He smiled. He mimed shooting a gun with his finger. He blew on his fingertip. Steam from his breath aped gunsmoke.