[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/bPwusTM.jpg?1[/img] [b]PART III:[/b] [b]SHAKEDOWN[/b] [b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Globe[/i], 12/23/46[/b] [b]SNAPSHOT KILLER SLAYED IN ATTEMPTED ARREST[/b] [b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Herald[/i], 12/24/46[/b] [b]GCPD TIES DURFEE TO EIGHT MURDERS[/b] [b]Banner: [i]Gotham Globe, [/i]12/26/46 [/b] [b]KILLER HAD A PAST OF PERVERSION, SAYS POLICE[/b] [b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Gabber[/i], 12/31/46[/b] [b]INSIDE THIS ISSUE: SNAPSHOT SLAYER SUBVERSIVE SOCIALIST[/b] [b]EXCLUSIVE PIX OF KILLER KOMRADE’S KRAZY KOTTAGE[/b] ---- [H3]1947[/h3] [b]EXTRACT: [i]Gotham Herald[/i] Sunday Edition Feature, 02/22/47[/b] [b]THE BURDEN OF COMMAND[/b][/center] GCPD Sergeant Max Eckhardt is far from your run of the milll cop. He’s got a gut, wears glasses, and has only used his weapon in the line of duty once. But that one time helped stop a string of killings that had paralyzed the city. And while not the square-jawed crimebuster Hollywood likes to portray, Sergeant Eckhardt is very much the upstanding moral exemplar those silver screen actors only pretend to be. In fact, his dedication to the rules resulted in Eckhardt earning a nickname among his fellow officers. “I saw a lush on the street,” Eckhardt recalled with a smile. “I was maybe a month out of the academy, still new to my beat. I was in the middle of my foot patrol. I ran him in. Turned out he was a councilmen... He got a slap on the wrist and was released. And Whiskey Max was born.” Readers to the Gotham papers will know Sergeant Eckhardt’s name very well after last year’s headlines, and a few may recognize it from a few years earlier. The man who solved the Snapshot Murders is no stranger to heroism. Soon after Pearl Harbor, then Detective Eckhardt answered the call of Uncle Sam. He was commissioned as an officer in the United States Marine Corps, where he earned a Navy Cross for his actions at the Battle of Guadalcanal. For Eckhardt catching killers and fighting Japs is all part of the job. “I was just doing my duty,” he said with a shrug. “When you choose to serve, be it as a Marine or a police officer, you are making a choice to do whatever is necessary to protect your city and country. And sometimes what’s necessary isn’t always pretty.” When asked about Christopher Durfee, the man GPCD identified as the Snapshot Killer, Eckhardt frowns and tries his best to express his thoughts on what happened. Finally he sighs and shakes his head. “It was not ideal circumstances,” he said. “I wanted to see him stand trial for his crimes, but eight women were dead and he had made it very clear he was not going to be taken down without a fight. To choose his life over my life, or the lives of my fellow officers and citizens. That’s the burden we sometimes face.” And now a new burden faces Sergeant Eckhardt: The burden of command. GCPD Homicide Commander Leonard Boyle has taken a medical leave of absence and Eckhardt has taken over as acting commander. “It’s a new challenge,” he said. “I’ve led men before, but that was during war. The circumstances are different. As are the expectations. But I take a lead by example approach. If I’m on duty in the middle of the night and there’s a call-out, I’m right there with my men at the crime scene.” And Sergeant Eckhardt will have plenty of chances to show off that approach. Already on the short-list for promotion, his heroic actions last year are expected to cement Eckhardt’s position as a member of the GCPD command structure. He’ll have his pick of any assignment that opens up. “I just want to go where I can do the most good,” said Eckhardt. And our fond wish at the Herald is that it does indeed come true. [center][b]BANNER: [i]Gotham Globe[/i], 03/31/47[/b] [b]GCPD DOWNPLAY GANGLAND SLAYINGS[/b] [b]EXTRACT: [i]Gotham Gabber[/i], 04/12/47[/b] [b]CRIMEWATCH: Giacomo Gang Getting The Garrote![/b][/center] Welcome back, you lecherous luciferian lushes, to the lowdown on larcenous life in our little locality. The buzz around our burg‘s bandit bund is that some bad bruisers are butchering button men with a brutal breeziness. Xplicit Xamples are as follows: [i]Xample One:[/i] Joseph “Toots” Leggario. Tough Toots took the night train to the Big Adios in January of this year. Trusty Toots served as the dictatorial dope dealer for the Giacomo Crime Family. He’s gunned down outside a negro night club where ne’redowells nestle. Pedestrians peeped a purple Plymouth peeling out poste haste. Officially, the GCPD case is still open and they are asking for anyone with any information to come forward. But while the courageous cops chew on their crullers crime continues. With Toots’ obit typed and set, Giacomo's are now frail and flailing in the free-for-all fight for control of the city’s drug markets. [i]Xample Two:[/i] Peter “Three-Legs Pete” Gregario. While the reason for the nickname is too risqué by even our sleazy standards, we can at least publish that Pete was the premier pimp and smut seller for the Giacomos. Pete got his ticket to perdition punched at the beginning of March, when his ‘46 Cadillac combusted courtesy of a car bomb. Pete was reduced to powder, along with the Giacomo’s profit when it came to prostitution and pornography. Both the Gotham Police and Fire Departments looked into the arranged assassination, but both inquiries are on ice. The one pointer passers-bys gave? A purple Plymouth parted promptly once Pete’s Caddy was under conflagration. [i]Xample Three:[/i] Richard “Just Rich” Riccotti. The mobster with the meek moniker, Ricotti lorded over loansharking and debts for the Giacomos. As shylock-in-chief, Rich supervised the supply of scratch for desperate debtors, and kept a diary of deadbeats that owed the Giacomos gelt. Always the practitioners of proper punctuation and print, we speak of Ricotti in the past tense for a particular purpose. Just Rich was found, his body beaten and bloated, on the beach just two weeks ago. The hoodlum’s hausfrau had reported her hubby gone to the crackerjack constables of the GPCD, but the copper collective carried on with their casework. One more mobster missing in action meant one less to monitor. Like the previous two gangland slayings, GCPD states that serious scrutiny is being used to survey the slaughter of Just Rich. One pesky postscript? Sources say that Just Rich’s shylock scratchpad is missing. If it was found on the body, then the cops are clammed up and won’t comment. Summation: We’ll drop the alliteration and get to the point, dear readers. What does it all mean? All three goons were Giacomo geeks. All three controlled the following rackets: Drugs, prostitution, and loansharking. All three major money makers for the Giacomo Crime Family. In the void of capable lieutenants, other mobs are crashing Giacomo rackets. While the cops seem to poo-poo the idea, the fact is that at least two of these killings seem to be linked. If the same people did not personally kill all three men, they were at least coordinated by some unseen force. Who is that person? We have a list, readers, but we won’t be sharing them. As much as we enjoy the crimewatch feature, we have no intention of becoming the subject of a future column. All we say is that famous Latin phrase used in investigations since the beginning of time: [i]Cui bono?[/i] Downplay it all they want to, dear readers, it seems apparent to us here at the [i]Gabber [/i]that a gang war is on the horizon. Remember you read it here first from the [i]Gabber[/i], giving you all the dirt that’s fit to print. [center]*****[/center] [b]05/21/47[/b] [b][i]Gotham Gabber [/i]Offices[/b] [b]10:07 PM[/b] Vicki Vale looked up from the copy on her desk. Rain hit the window pane. She sighed. Two days straight of this shit. Shit weather while she did shit work. Copy editing June's edition. It was filled with the usual scandal rag padding: hints at which movie stars had communist leanings, which high society types were being naughty, and sinnuendo galore on negro jazz musicians smoking reefer and fucking white women. From start to finish the whole rag had Gertie’s fingerprints on it. [i]The Gabber[/i] was a labor of love for Gregory “Gossip Gertie” Gertrude. It was his life. If he wasn’t here working on an article, he was out collecting dirt. He was a cockroach who lived for dirt. He pulled his pud to photos of Bette Davis and a well-hung Samoan stunt double named Smilin’ Joe. He had files on everyone. Said files were filled with salacious material. Said files could ruin countless lives. Said files were stashed away and under tight lock and key. Lightning flashed across the sky. Vicki heard thunder rumbling. She rubbed her temples and pulled a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass from her desk. One, two, three shots and she was buzzed. Vicki leaned back in her chair and went here she always went when the booze got in her system: Semmes. Semmes, Alabama. Pop: 1280. Spitting distance to Mobile and the Gulf. Her momma died in childbirth. Her daddy, Wayne Frank Vale, was a sheriff’s deputy. He raised her and her brother as best as he could. Semmes was Klan Kountry. Her daddy tolerated the Klan. All the white people either embraced or tolerated their local Klavern. No one ever came out against the Klan, to do so marked you as a race traitor. Her brother heard the cry “Remember Pearl Harbor” and went into the army. She heard the cry “wartime opportunity” and attended college by day and commuted to Mobile to build ships by night. In ‘43 Wayne Frank pulled a bunch of white men off a negro one Saturday night. Wayne Frank ran them all in. The klan went krazy. They kondemned Wayne Frank. They kalled him a kounterproductive kraker. The Exalted Cyclops Teddy Marshall Lewis decries Wayne Frank as having negro blood. Wayne Frank dies a few months later in a single kar kollision. The klan keeps kalm. They don’t klaim the krime. Vicki knows the truth. She buries Wayne Frank and finishes her degree. Her brother died in the mud fighting over some place called Monte Cassino. By then Semmes was in the rearview mirror. She worked on losing her accent and headed north. She took her journalism degree and started looking for jobs. She took a job at the [i]Gabber[/i] because Gertie was the only editor who didn’t see a blowjob as a prerequisite to employment. She worked on copy by day and fantasized about bloody revenge at night. Teddy Marshall Lewis and his klavern were all on her list. “Is that hooch I smell?” Gertie waddled in. He topped out at 5’5” and weighed at least two hundred pounds. His raincoat ran long to compensate for his girth. It trailed on the floor behind him like a cape. “You’re too cute to drink whiskey straight, 'Bama.” 'Bama was his nickname for her, lest she forget where she was from. Vicki downed another shot. “And you’re too fat and short to hit on me.” “Just stating the obvious.” “So am I.” He laughed and flopped down in a chair. The chair creaked and groaned. The chair took his weight. The chair was close to collapsing. He took off his hat and wiped the rain from his forehead. Vicki went back to the copy on her desk. “You a boxing fan, Vale?” She didn’t look up from the paper. “Ugly men beating each other in the face and making themselves uglier, what’s not to love?” Gertie dug wax out of his ear. “I know you’re from fucking hicksville, USA, so you wouldn’t know about it, but there’s a cop on the city police who is a bit of a celebrity. Slam Bradley? Ring a bell?” Vicki yawned. “Can’t say that it does.” “He was famous for a bit in the late 30’s and early 40’s as a local fighter. Gotham’s Great White Hope. I’m working on a new segment for the paper with him, busting high-profile hopheads and other debauched celebrities while we ride shotgun.” Sounded like shakedown city to Vicki. A chance to give people willing to pay a chance to avoid arrest and exposure. It sounded strictly from hunger to her. It reeked of gauche grifting. Gertie scratched his neck. “And I want you working on it.” She looked up. “Seriously? Gertie winked. “I’m stretched too thin, 'Bama, something I can never say about myself in any other circumstances. And you've done a solid job at the copy desk. I hate to actually give out compliments, but you’ve earned a shot to wade into the mud.” It was coming up on two years since she was hired. Two years of proofreading scandal sheet shit, grabbing lunch orders, and doing everything else but writing published pieces. Now she was being given a chance. Gertie raised an eyebrow. “Well?” “When do I get started?” [center]*****[/center] [b]05/22/47[/b] [b]3:45 AM[/b] His dreams played on a reel. Heat and mosquitoes. It’s the jungle. It’s a goddamn war and you’re not gonna survive. You will die on this shitty rock in the Pacific. Your death, in the name of taking over some godforsaken place called Guadalcanal, will be meaningless. You will never see your daughter again. You will never see… [i]him[/i] again. You hear gunfire and Jap gibberish. You see Sergeant McRainey with a flamethrower. You hear the words: BANZAI! BANZAI! BANZAI! McRainey torches the trees. He brays like a donkey. Japs scream as the world goes up in flames. Next reel: It’s cold. A pump shotgun in your hands. Red, numbing hands on cold gunmetal. Ambition coalesced with absolute justice, opportunity sprung forth. Bold dreams required bold action. Eight people dead. Heinous crimes required swift resolution. Shotgun justice. Shotgun Max took matters into his own hands. Max jerked awake. Nightmare. He felt cold sweat on his forehead. Nearly six months sober. This was the price of price of bucking The Thirst. Night terrors and old debts accruing haunted his dream. He squinted through the dark of the bedroom at the clock on the wall. Almost four AM. Stirring at his side. Marcus rolled away from him. He got out of bed and found his glasses. He started to dress in the dark. He sensed Driver waking up. Driver said, "Leaving?" "I need to get back home before Mary wakes up. If she finds me gone that'll lead to a conversation I don't want to have. Plus I have to be at work at seven. I seem to recall you’re on the six to six shift." A flash of light in the dark. Driver lit a cigarette. A red ember danced. Max could feel his eyes through the dark. They watched him. They asked the same thing he was asking himself. [i]What did we do? And what are we going to do?[/i] Over five years years since their last coupling. It still was not enough time to kill the heat. He could feel it simmering even now, hours post copulation. Max asked. “Will I see you later today?” Driver blew smoke and played coy. “Depends on if I have a reason to go downtown." “Make one up.” “Is that an order?” Max groped through the dark, found Marcus and his lips. Careful. A mostly chaste kiss. Something more would threaten to reignite it. He walked towards the door, came up short and looked back in the dark. "Was it... the same as it was all those years ago?" A long pause while Driver stubbed his cigarette ut. "God yes... and that's what I'm afraid of. Last time we treated it as a fling. It destroyed your marriage and I had to put my career on the backburner, but chalk it up to a one time thing. But, now? With you where you are in the PD?" Max rested his forehead against the door. What he wanted to say: I would gladly sacrifice my career, this city, and everything short of my daughter to be with you. You are my salvation. You are the one who can save me from myself. What came out: "I know." Still dark when he stepped out into the morning. Warm and sticky and humid. A hot day coming up. He already felt sweat beading. His car was stashed two blocks away. His idea of being covert and careful. He walked down the sidewalk. A car started up down the block. Max felt his stomach go cold. He turned, saw a black coupe racing down the street. He tried to snag a plate number. The car had no lights on so no tag lights showing a plate. The car hauled ass down the street and faded in the distance.