[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/7px5MvC.jpg?1[/img][/center] [b]December 22nd, 1946[/b] [b]Western District Station[/b] [b]11:38 PM[/b] The fat pervert spat blood. Slam sapped him across the face with a blackjack. Slam had his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up past the elbow. The interrogation room sweltered even at Christmastime. Fatty handcuffed to the bolted down chair weeped. He screamed. Two-Gun Jack Grogan sat in the far corner and peeled an orange with a switchblade. Grogan said, "Chester York. You're a disgusting pervert." Slam worked the fat man's ribs with the blackjack. He squealed like a pig. Grogan haw-hawed and bit into an orange slice. Slam's arms felt numb. Sweat stung his face. Going on twelve hours since they started their perv hunt. GCPD wanted the Snapshot Killer found post haste regardless of innocence. Pin it on a major creep, preferably one far enough off the deep end to not protest. Grogan popped another orange slice and sang, "[i]Chester, Chester, the child molester[/i]. You know, I ain't never met a boy named Chester who wasn't some kind of fiend. But you, son, you take the cake. All them women you killed, and for what exactly? Did it get you off?" York spat teeth. "I didn't kill nobody! I like kids! Grown women it ain't my thing! Killing ain't my thing!" Grogan touched the tip of his stetson. It meant GO HARD. Slam backhanded York with the sap. Slam worked arms and legs with the sap. York screamed loud. Bones snapped over the yells. Fatty York gasped for air. He coughed up blood and teeth and said, "I'll... do whatever you tell me, I'll say what... whatever you want. Just stop hitting me." SLam stepped back. Grogan spat pulp on the floor and smiled. "Excellent. We're gonna get the DA in here and you're gonna confess. Now, let Detective Bradley coach you on exactly what to say." [center]*****​[/center] [b]Gotham Central[/b] [b]12:19 AM[/b] Max swigged booze from a coffee cup and got back to work. Max, Fields, and Corrigan were a three man cold case squad. They were sequestered in Max and Field’s Homicide cubicles. Stacks and stacks of old sex crimes on the desk. Fields thumbed through it with Corrigan's help. Max had a list of perp sheets in front of him, searching for known criminals who were white men with dark hair who owned a white sedan. Fields sucked on a cigar and blew smoke. "This sex offender shit is strictly from hunger, Max. If our guy was a rape-o or a pervert, why didn't he poke any of the girls?" Charlie's bitching struck a nerve. Max rode a brainwave. The search for a diddler or panty-sniffer played wrong. HIS guy was a voyeur. He was passive up until the point of the killings. He was a peeper. Fields sighed and said, "To hell with this. I know this is important, but I need a goddamn break. Anybody want some sandwiches?" Charlie took orders and headed out to the deli across the street. Max looked at Corrigan. He kept working the case files. His shoulders sagged and his fingers twitched. Max knew the look. Corrigan was coming down hard. He'd need a fix sooner rather than later. Max turned back to the files. H rode his brainwave to the files, narrowed his search for white, dark haired men who owned white sedans AND who had some kind of peeping rap sheet. Thirty minutes later he hit paydirt. Durfee, Chris NMI. DOB: 3/10/24. White male, black hair and brown eyes. He got popped with peeping tom beefs in '39, '41, '43, two in late '45. The last string of offenses sent him to prison for six months. His release date sent skin prickles down Max's spine: 8/21/46. Three weeks before the first Snapshot Killer victim. Max stood up. His legs wobbled. He held on to the desk to right himself. He looked over at Corrigan. "I think I've found our guy. We need to go, right now." Corrigan looked around. "What about Fields? What about backup?" Max could feel the case's solving on his fingertips. Eight murders solved. His glory case drew nigh. His reputation cemented. "Not enough time, let's go!" --- [b]Western Gotham City[/b] [b]1:10 AM[/b] Max pulled the unmarked up to the curb. Snow fell in flurries across the street. Durfee's listed address: A flophouse that was easy driving distance to all of the murders. It coalesced into theory. It gave Max goosebumps. He popped the trunk. Corrigan got out. Max got out and opened the trunk. A pump shotgun sitting in the back. He picked it up and racked a round into the chamber. Max said, "Cover the back while I go in the front." Corrigan scampered towards the flop's rear entrance. Max's feet crunched on snow as he went to the front door. Christmastime in Gotham. Snow flurries flecked his hair. Red, numbing hands on cold gunmetal. His ambition coalesced with absolute justice, opportunity sprung forth. Bold dreams required bold action. Eight women were dead. Heinous crimes required swift resolution. Max said a Hail Mary and kicked the door in. There's Durfee, on a tattered couch in soiled tighty whities. Max tried to say 'Police' and 'You're under arrest.' Nothing came out. THERE: Durfee moves for something. Max squeezes the trigger on the shotgun. It kicked back. Durfee's chest caved in. Max screamed and fired again. A second shot blew his face off. Durfee flopped backwards on the floor twitching. He dropped the shotgun. Blood spatter on his glasses. He shuffled to Durfee. Saw he was going for a marijuana cigarette on the table. Max let out a dry sob. He stepped over Durfee's body. He stumbled into the kitchen. He upended the table. A box flopped on to its side. Pictures spilled out. Shots of all eight women killed by the Snapshot Killer. Max's ears rang. Meaty hands on his shoulder. Corrigan's. He heard the sirens. Cops on the scene. They gawked. They cheered and gave Max pats on the back. One of them said, "It's down. The whole goddamn case is down. One of them laughed and said, "Eckhardt, who would have thought?" Someone said, "Shotgun Max."