#38: Dead Sounds // Homecoming (HoM / Jarin)

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Written by House Of Mystery[/center]

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The only sound coming from the room was his breathing, filtered through the old gas mask strapped to his face. Large, child-like eyes looked out unblinkingly, and his head hung at an angle. His hair, white as snow, appeared out from the back of his head, tufts emerging wildly from beneath the straps of the mask. The breathing continued. The man wore a white lab coat that went all the way down to his feet, and his gloved hands rested on the arms of the chair he was sitting in.

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John Double’s men stormed into the room, guns ready and aimed. Hub City was crooked inside, growing from the streets wrong, but they were taking it back, one block at a time. This apartment was a bad place to be in, they could feel it as they entered, the way the hair on the back of their necks prickled underneath the SWAT gear.

Double was chewing on the stale gum he’d slipped in his mouth before they’d left the station, focusing himself: “Clear the rooms!”

The team didn’t need to be asked. Double looked around, his weapon not yet lowered, knowing that this was the place they were looking for. The Question had told him of a Cult that thrived on death. Believed that their one sole purpose in life was to free people from the physical bonds of their body by bloody knife and murder. Mad men, all of them, following a philosophy that no one on the outside had read. They’d caught some cultist in the past. The Question left one hanging out of Hub Central one night, but the man had simply killed himself in the cells, smashing his head into the wall again and again and again until it was too late to put the brains back in. But they’d gained a tip, heard rumblings, and so here they were. And the tip was right.

“Clear!” came the call from one of the SWAT members, “clear!” from another, “clear!” “Clear!” “Clear!” The team reconvened in the living room, where Double had removed his mask, sweat dripping from his face.

“You see that?” He pointed at the table, and the only source of light in the entire apartment.

“Creepy,” whispered another SWAT member.

Double pointed at the table, where candles were lit all around an old, bound tome, and atop that tome, was an old gas mask. “Where the Hell are those murdering bastards, then?” Double grunted, and then pulled a radio from his side. “Get forensics in here, I want this entire place stripped down to the walls.” He closed the line, and then looked at the men and women around him. “We missed them. We missed the bastards. Where the Hell could they have gone…?”

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“Tim’s missing,” grunted Batman, as he headed home. “He lied to us. He said he was sleeping at a friend’s house, and we didn’t think to check, and now he’s late and there was no--”

“He called, Master Dick. He called whilst you were busting head making people fear you. He is fine, he informed me, and I in turn informed him that when he returned home there would be a lecture waiting for him. He then proceeded to not tell me when he was returning home, or where he was. It is, I admit, such a shame that his scrambling abilities are not up to par yet. I tracked his location. He is in Las Vegas.”

“…Barbara?” Dick Grayson swerved to a stop inside the Cave, “then we should call--”

“I do not think so, Sir. Master Timothy is mature beyond his years, and though I too am irked by his decision not to inform us of his decision to go travelling, we know that he is smart enough to look after himself, and ask for help when he needs it.”

“He’s still hurting from the death of his dad,” stated Dick, as he pulled off the tight cowl and flung it over a worktop. Alfred Pennyworth was already there, ready to collect it, and quietly folded it up and continued listening. “I can see it in his eyes. You’re right, Alfred, he’s not an idiot. Barbara is there. An entire team of superheroes, and he knows they’re there…” he sighed. “He’s hurting. We’re all hurting. He can have his space. But as soon as he gets back he is so grounded.”

“Ah,” replied Alfred, “how enjoyable for all of us. May I ask how was your night until that startling revelation that Tim is a teenager and requires his space?”

“I hear things, from snitches. That something big is coming down. Did you know the murder rates are up? And not just killings, these seem like… art work. Bodies opened up for all to see, organs removed, and the knife work… different at times, but so precise. It’s horrible.” Dick shook his head. “Maybe I’m imagining it. Seeing connections where there are none. But I can’t shake that feeling…”

“Seeing connections in everything? You are your father’s son,” noted Alfred, as he headed up to the Manor above. “If you can see the connection, there’s a reason for it. Don’t be naïve in thinking you’re over-thinking, Sir. That’d be what Master Bruce would say.”

“He would, wouldn’t he,” whispered Dick to himself, as he began to draw a map in his head…

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“You think you’re a clever little bastard, don’t you?” Jackson Davies placed his hands behind the suspect’s chair, his hands causing the wood to creak as they tightened. “You think we wouldn’t have found you? You dumb little £$%^ it was like you wanted us to find you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Thomas Giild. Renowned fraudster. The sole employee of Remberetto Inc. He leant back as best as he could, and Davies moved his hands. They’d come too far to have this punk have them put on trumped up abuse charges. “I’m working my best to get something done for the company. I help process information. That’s what I do.”

“You’re a meta-human.” Crowe entered the room, and placed a blood report on the table. “Latent, only recently emerged. Quite lucky for you, isn’t it? Always a con-artist, now a con-artist at superhuman level. Says here that your mind works at a really high level. You’re able to process information at an inhuman rate. Quite interesting really.”

“Oh, you think? Do you want my number or something, Detective?” Giild smiled.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” replied Crowe, “I already have it. And your mother’s. Oh, and the press. I have the press’ number. Do you love your mother, Thomas?”

Giild’s jaw tensed. “Are you threatening me?”

“No, I’m just asking a question!” Crowe continued to smile, as he watched Giild’s fade. “Because whoever is murdering these families is a monster, Thomas. And you, right now, look like a monster.”

“No offense, punk,” snapped Davies.

“I had nothing to do with these murders, Hell, I’m trying my best to be honest by this gig.”

“Is that why you’re sending dozens of emails to these peoples computers, containing high end viruses that eat away at their memory behind their backs? I mean, it’s clever, you have all their information, you send an email, it gets opened, bam, you have full access to everything on their computers. It’s happened to the best of us, I assure you.”

“I’m trying my best! And that’s nothing! I mean, I haven’t done anything with the information I’ve gained, other than--”

“Increasing your profit? You’re really not putting up a compelling case toward your being innocent.”

“Fine, I might be a complete $%^& but I don’t kill. I’m a punk, I steal from idiots, I don’t kill!”

“So you say,” replied Crowe. “You know, this might be out of jurisdiction, Davies.”

“What?!” Davies stepped forward, anger in his eyes.

Giild’s head shifted down a moment, his eyes peering at the English detective. “Yeah, what?”

“He’s a metahuman. We need to call in the DEO. You know what they’re like though.”

Davies nodded slowly, his tone dripping with exasperation. “Months.”

Giild jerked out of his chair, his hand still chained to the table. “Months what?”

“DEO procedure is one of the tightest in the world, Thomas,” stated Crowe. “You don’t even get interviewed until the full extent of your metagene is explored. Every had a bone marrow transplant?”

“No, why would you--”

“The tests there, God,” Crowe shuddered, “in depth.” He placed his finger on his sleeve, and then motioned down, almost struggling. “Deep.”

“I didn’t do it. God, I swear, I’ll take a lie detector test, bring in the freaking Martian Manhunter, I don’t know, just, I didn’t do it, ok?”

The two detectives stared at the once confident man as he shook in his seat, sweat dribbling down his face. “We’ll be back.”

The door closed behind them, and Davies turned to see Line Patrol Officer Hill watching through the two-way mirror. “I don’t think he’s lying.”

“Hey Lewis,” replied Davies, as he patted the man on the back, “how you doing?”

“He didn’t do it,” answered Hill.

“Well, we’ve got a hell of a lot of evidence that says otherwise. How you feeling?”

“He’s a punk, Davies, we all know that. He’s been busted before, but he’s a punk.”

“Look, you probably shouldn’t be here Lewis, I know what happened when you saw the bodies--” Davies placed his hand on Hill’s shoulder, but it was shrugged off violently.

“You don’t know anything, Davies. You’re sitting on a guy who didn’t do it. You’re the detective, Sarge! You!” He headed for the door, swung it open, and left, leaving Crowe and Davies look at each other.

“Poor guy.”

“Bullock told me he was the first car on the scene of the first murder. Nothing shakes Hill, Crowe. Nothing.”

“Hmm,” Crowe took his pipe from his inner pocket, and tapped it on his sleeve. “Let’s get some air.”

“Hey, guys, Sarge, Crowe:” Bullock stopped them as they moved through the squad room. “Just got the files from all the murders so far. All the uniform’s reports. You want them?”

“Sure, thanks Bull.” Sarge took the dossiers and tucked them under his arm, and then, followed by Crowe, left the precinct house.

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Mayor Krol was extolling the virtues of their masked vigilante. His advisors told him it would help his popularity, and do you know why? It was because the city, once against the caped crusader, was suddenly with him, supporting him like they had never before. The media stopped crushing the urban legend, and started loving him. This had a curious effect on the city. Suddenly, Gotham stopped being afraid. He had, after all, defeated a team of supervillains, all by his lonesome by all accounts, saved the lives of dozens of influential Gotham citizens at the Hyde Civic Centre, and he didn’t stop fighting! He wasn’t a criminal, they all thought, he fought like an animal to save their lives again and again. He’d fought to stop Ra’s Al Ghul and his army of assassins. Two Face, Black Mask, all that business? Surely they were all misinformed… surely…

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“Did you hear the news?”

Benjamin Mackey always hated it when Jeremy started a conversation like that. ‘Did you hear…?’ ‘Did you know…?’ He inevitably didn’t know what Jeremy was about to say, else the question would be moot. “I hear news all the time, Jer. What’s the deuce?”

“Wayne Enterprises took a controlling stake in Gotham’s favourite place in the entire world. Arkham Asylum. They’re bringing in a big construction company to refit the place, reinforce the walls and all that crap. Hiring on a lot of new people, moving the inmates to a secure holding facility till it’s done.”

Benjamin had not heard this news, and it was in fact quite a large surprise to him. He smiled broadly, and gave his reply: “Yeah, that’ll go down well with ol’ Jeremiah, right?” Benjamin shook his head. “And like no one will escape when they transfer them out for the construction… there’ll be, what, a six month, maybe year long window of them freaks running wild, causing all kinds of trouble for the kind folk of the city, before Batman and/ or Robin bring them back in wearing straightjackets.”

“That’s the thing, Benny, they’re getting in the help of some out-of-towners from Coast City. Apparently, the Justice League do construction work if you donate a hell of a lot of money to one the foundation they started up... something about supporting all sorts of charities across the world. Green Lantern is going be leading the project with that fancy ring of his”

Benjamin Mackey lent against the wall, and released a low whistle. “Crikey. That’s some construction crew. Wouldn’t mind seeing Wonder Woman hammering away at the walls, if you know what I mean?”

“Having fun, boys?” Mayor Krol patted his two bodyguards on the back as he left his bedroom. They had been waiting outside, relieving the police guard that was posted on his door at all times. When they left, uniforms were due to return and keep watch. After his attack at the hands of the Joker, Krol was safety conscious to the nth degree.

“Fun, sir? No, sir, our duty sir,” Benjamin snapped to attention and replied.

“Ha, no need to be serious, let’s just--”

“Crrk.”

“What was that?” Jeremy’s hand swung to his holster, and unbuttoned his gun, ready. He was a quick draw, the quickest in the agency, specially chosen by Krol for that reason. His previous chauffeur/bodyguard had been murdered before he could get a shot off. He didn’t intend to be left defenceless again.

“Sounded like the loose floorboard round the corner…” Krol lived in the second biggest mansion in Gotham County. The fact that it was the second biggest didn’t irk him in the slightest… if you asked him to his face. Not that size mattered to him.

The bodyguards pulled their guns, and aimed them toward the darkness at the end of the corridor. “Stay behind us, sir.”

“Don’t, don’t leh, leh, let…” Krol saw the Joker’s wolf smile, teeth bared and fanged and coming at him. “Nuh, nuh, nuh…” His hand began to shake, his eye socket itched, all the pain inflicted by the clown prince of crime rushed into his head with a crack and he screamed, swung himself into his bedroom, and locked the door.

“Mayor Krol! Sir!” barked Benjamin.

“Phht.”

Benjamin was about to say something else, under his breath maybe, something offense and scathing, or maybe he was going to reassure his boss, but the back of his neck exploded as the bullet exited his flesh. He keeled to the floor like a fish out of water, clutching at the bloody gape. “hhhhkkk”

Jeremy fired his gun calmly, well, as calmly as he could, considering the circumstances. He backed up, his foot nudging into the twitching body of Benjamin, and nearly fell. He kept straight, his eyes trying to adjust to the darkness of the bottom corridor. “KROL! CALL THE--” He glanced down, and that was his undoing. He saw Benjamin’s pale face, blood bubbling round the corners of his mouth, and then he looked up, only to be struck across the face by the butt of a gun.

“Kkkt. Kkkt. Kkkrrk. Shhhphht. Shhhkt. Shhkkt.” His attacker paused for a moment, and looked at the misshapen mass of meat that was now Jeremy’s face. He then continued. “Sshkt.” He had no concerns that Krol would call the police. He couldn’t, the lines were cut. He’d also murdered the guards outside. This man here, his blood splattering over his attacker's leather coat as he relentlessly broken open his skull, was his seventeenth kill today. Ten on the grounds. Seven on a whim. Onomatopoeia finally finished his onslaught, and wiped the butt of his gun on the bodyguard’s white shirt. The shirt had long since finished being white. His gloved hand reached for the door handle to Krol’s bedroom. Locked. “Krchack.” He took his silenced pistol to the lock, and fired. “PhhKrrkt.” A shoulder barge, and the door splintered fully open, and he saw Krol, shaking, holding the biggest gun he could have got his hands on aimed squarely at Onomatopoeia’s face.

“Bassstard! Wuh, wuh, won’t get me!”

Onomatopoeia smiled underneath his mask. “Click. Click.”

Krol pulled the trigger. Click. Click. No bullet came out. None of Onomatopoeia found itself red on the back wall. “No! No no no!”

“Click.” Onomatopoeia took a step forward, and in his spare hand, showered the floor with bullets. “Click.”

Click. Click. “NO!”

Onomatopoeia fired his gun at Krol’s knee cap, and then punched the Mayor in the face, knocking him out. “Krrk.”

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Police Commissioner Gordon knew things. He knew things he didn’t want to admit and he knew things he had admitted. He knew that Gotham City was changing. Rumblings from snitches spoke of a change coming on the streets. He knew the murder rates were up. Ornate killings, horrifying killings, and he couldn’t help but feel that they were connected some how. He felt that. He didn’t know it. But there was this other case, the one Crowe and Davies were on, the families being slaughtered, their eyes glued open… Gotham City was dirtier and uglier than usual. That was separate. Before these… orgies of murder started occurring.

“Something’s happening, across the city,” whispered the voice, “I can feel it.”

“I can too,” replied Gordon calmly. He turned, and saw a hint of yellow from the shadows. Batman. “Rumblings. Whispers of something big brewing.”

“These murders, the ritualistic killings done with a steady hand and a ready knowledge of human anatomy, they’re connected to something. In Hub City, there was word of a cult that worshipped murder. Freeing the human soul from the confines of the human body by way of the knife. They’d keep cutting until the victim died, and they knew how to cut to keep the victim alive for the longest amount of time-- these are not nice people.” Batman paused. “I think that cult has come to Gotham City, Commissioner. I think we have a problem.”

The door rattled as someone knocked on it frantically. Gordon looked to where Batman had stood and could see no one. “Come in!”

Sam Merkel burst in, looking nervous. “Sir, we have news from the Krol estate, he’s been kidnapped!”

“Again?!” Gordon was out of his chair before he knew it, and headed for the door. Merkel was already out, organising detectives and uniforms. Gordon paused at his doorway. “Find him. Save him. If this is the Joker…”

The curtains flapped in the night air.

“Yeah. Do your job,” murmured the Commissioner.

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