Post by DocQuantum on Jul 23, 2017 1:42:35 GMT
by bensloane
Part 1
Ray Spinely cracked a small brown egg over a hot iron skillet. As the egg white bubbled in butter, Ray pondered the two shattered halves and fit them back together, only a few small flecks missing from the whole. His action should have reminded him of himself, but didn't. He threw the broken shell towards the garbage, but missed and hit the wall. He did not stoop to pick it up.
As his eggs fried, Ray checked his wallet, found two condoms and a hundred dollars. He'd made new friends the night before, a stripper and her skinhead boyfriend, and the cab driver who picked them all up from the bar. Amii and Kyle made out in the back seat of the cab while Ray watched. Ray had slipped Amii twenty dollars, which Kyle hadn't noticed. Neither Ray nor Amii wanted the teen-age Aryan to think he was part of a show. Ray decided to be more obvious about it the next time; maybe Amii and Kyle would have an argument. That might be fun.
Ray hoped that these two might interest him the way his normal life did not. Many drug dealers frequented the bar where Amii danced. Kyle and his friends vandalized synagogues and Korean-owned groceries. Ray had no interests, so he tried to cultivate eccentricities. He bathed infrequently. He shaved his underarm hair, but did not clip his toenails. He recently sat for a tattoo.
Ray thought the tattoo might satisfy his urge for excitement. After weeks of hesitation, still too nervous to pick a design, he fidgeted relentlessly, talking non-stop to the artist about Debbie, his fictional Canadian girlfriend. He spoke of her golden hair, the diamond he'd bought her, and how they'd chosen their favorite song, "Sugar Sugar" by the Archies. By the time he finally paused, he had his tattoo, a murky crimson and orange color design, only half-outlined in a thick black line. Ray hadn't yet shown anyone the tattoo on his calf. He had no idea what it was and had been too embarrassed to ask. He hadn't yet made up a story explaining it.
Ray scooped his eggs onto a plate, breaking the yolks with the spatula. Just then, a car horn blared from the street below Ray's apartment. He skipped to the window, hoping his cab driver friend had happened by early, but saw only a brown low rider and slow-moving pedestrians giving it the finger.
From his window, Ray saw his neighbor, Old Eddie, waiting on the stoop of the building. A woman with two toddlers had stopped to chat. Another woman approached with a plate wrapped in tin foil. Old Eddie had cancer of some kind and the neighborhood loved to feed him. Ray felt a burning sensation in his stomach. It might be heartburn, he thought, but it could be cancer. He would ask Amii if she thought he'd lost weight. Ray already walked with an unnecessary limp, his awkward gait straining his knee, which caused it to swell, which caused him to limp. When he'd heard about Old Eddie's illness, Ray developed a cough, but so far, no free meals.
Ray returned to his eggs and found his plate empty. Thinking he may have dropped his dinner, he looked on the stove, on the floor. There were no eggs anywhere. Ray heard the clink of silverware behind him. He turned to see a man in his apartment, standing by his bedroom door, eating his eggs.
"Where's your tattoo?" the intruder asked. He dropped the plate of eggs on the floor.
"What?" Ray stuttered. The front door to his apartment was closed and chained. He did not know how this man could have entered his home.
"Your tattoo?" the intruder said. "Where is it? Bicep? Buttock?"
In body, the intruder looked no older than perhaps sixteen. The crow's feet around his eyes and the yellowing of his teeth aged his face. His hair was blonde and oily. Though he was slightly built and shorter than Ray by several inches, he looked stronger, more powerful. Ray rarely exercised.
"I don't have any tattoo," Ray said.
The intruder crept towards Ray, inching him into the kitchen.
"You have," said the intruder. "I smell it."
Suddenly, the intruder rushed towards Ray, big butcher's knife raised above his head. Ray scurried aside as the knife crashed down into a wall.
"What is this?" Ray thought. "What is he doing?"
Ray dove over the couch, landing hard on the bare wood floor. An end table toppled, breaking a lamp. Ray hid there a moment, expecting the intruder to make his way to the door, to leave him with a story to tell his new friends. An interesting event was finally happening to Ray, who even that moment believed that true tragedy struck only others.
"Where is it?" Ray's attacker asked again.
Ray listened as footsteps circled the couch and two boots appeared directly in front of Ray.
"What!" Ray yelled, worried now that his attacker betrayed no desire to leave.
The man grabbed Ray by the hair and lifted his head.
"It's not on your face," he said. With that, he reached down and cut Ray on the ear, a long slice from the tip to the lobe, splitting the cartilage cleanly in two.
Ray screamed and covered his ear. He drew his hand down covered with blood.
"Where is it?"
"On my leg!" Ray screamed. "My leg!"
The intruder knelt next to Ray and sliced open the back of his pants as neatly as he had Ray's ear.
"Good," he said, Ray presumed at his tattoo.
Beneath his fear, Ray felt curiosity.
"Why would someone do this?" he thought. "I wonder what Amii will think of this."
Ray felt a hard punch to his back. He had to escape before the knife man harmed him further. Ray tried to rise, but had no feeling in his right arm. The intruder hit him again. Ray felt warmth and wetness on his back. The intruder struck him a half dozen times, then a half dozen more.
Surely someone had called the police. Surely an ambulance and doctors would arrive any moment. Frank the cabby would find him. His head resting sideways on the floor, Ray watched his blood pool beneath his cheek and slowly, so slowly, creep towards the door.
For all his adult life, Ray Spinely wanted something exciting to happen to him.
Something did.
Part 2
From the journal of Wesley Dodds :
I dreamed again last night of birds, the same dream I've suffered on occasion for many months.
Two jays dance a mating ritual, spattering the gray wash of my dreaming with blue. A harrier comes, in jealousy tormenting their flesh and streaking their feathers with blood. Then appear vultures, hooked necks roiling and dodging like cobras. They pluck the color from my dream until only the oily black sheen of their bodies remains. Well fed, the vultures grow. They expand in my sight, blocking all color, all whiteness, all light. I cannot see through this curtain of tar. I cannot breathe through it. I taste kerosene and wet feathers. I smother, and choke, then awaken.
I have not related this dream to Dian. I can not bring myself to it. Though no evidence presents itself, I fear that she and I are the two jays dancing.
Part 3
"The tabloids call him The Tattooed Man," said Dr. Mid-Nite. "You may have heard of it."
Four members of the Justice Society met at the polished oak table in their meeting hall. At the chairman's spot stood Charles McNider, known here as Dr. Mid-Nite. After gangster violence robbed him of vision, he discovered that a fluke of nature allowed him to see in total darkness. He wore special dark glasses which allowed him to see in daylight and carried Black-Out smoke bombs that disoriented the criminals in his cross-hairs. His black cowl and goggles rested on the table.
"I don't read the tabloids," said Terry Sloan, the second Sentinel of Justice gathered there. Sloan wore the red cowl and green tunic of his alter-ego, Mr. Terrific, the Man of 10,000 Talents. Previously the Man of 1,000 Talents, the newspapers had recently upgraded his standing. An all-around athlete, chemist, poet, philosopher, and inventor, in any other time, Terry Sloan would have been king.
At Sloan's right sat Rex Tyler, The Hourman.
"The Gotham police don't seem to be taking this too seriously," said the Man of the Hour. Decades earlier, Tyler invented a pill granting super-strength and stamina for sixty minute periods. Criminals who feared the Man less than the Hour all learned the error of underestimating the man in the yellow-and-black costume. Tyler fidgeted impatiently with the coffee tray in front of him. He dropped a handful of sugar cubes into his cup and drank without stirring.
"Be assured that they do, Rex," said the man next to the Hourman. His voice reverberated eerily in the modified gas mask hiding his identity. One of the first of them, and the most revered, the Sandman wore the green business suit and purple cloak in which he began his career.
Mid-Nite continued.
"In the past year alone, Gotham's police have seen murder by house plant, by shrunken head, by razor sharp playing cards; a series of simple knife murders doesn't arouse much interest."
"I guess I don't see anything 'simple' about murder and mutilation, Doc," Hourman replied.
"No one does, Rex," said Mid-Nite. "But you know Gotham's reputation as well as any of us."
"I know," Hourman sighed. "What's that joke? How many murders happen in Gotham each year?"
"One of each," answered Mr. Terrific.
"The Tattooed Man's victims vary in race, age, gender, and class," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "They lived in different neighborhoods, were employed in diverse lines of work, belonged to different health clubs. Only one item links them. Each had a tattoo."
The Doctor opened an accordion file and removed a set of photographs and police reports.
"Emphasis on 'had'," he said as he distributed the information. "After each murder, the Tattooed Man excises the flesh surrounding the victim's tattoo, in most cases down past the muscle to the bone. None of these pieces have been recovered, with the victims or otherwise."
The four Society men reviewed the photos. Mid-Nite passed them along without review, his only expression a grim frown. Also a doctor in civilian life, he had seen damage to the human body far worse than any pictured there. He allowed his clinical training to suppress his human reaction to such suffering.
"We can link four victims in the Gotham Tri-State area in the last six months," Mid-Nite continued. "From photographs provided by the victims' families, we can be certain that two of the victims had their tattoos cut from their bodies. In these photos, you can see the post-mortem wound matches the tattooed area."
Mr. Terrific forced himself to view each and every photograph. He felt each wound as though his own body were affected. He could imagine the terror they knew. Despite the torment, he drank in the details, in silence honoring the suffering of the victims and affirming his commitment to finding their killer.
"You can see the similarities in size and color of those two tattoos. Unfortunately, even the best pictures we have are not very detailed. With the other two, we can only guess. As yet, we have not identified anyone who may have seen the victims' tattoos."
The Hourman visibly flinched as each autopsy photograph slid along the oak table towards him. Long accustomed to his own invulnerability, the ease with which human flesh tore always surprised him.
"The actual cause of death in each case is different," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "Two beatings, one strangulation, one knifing. Only the post-mortem mutilation is the same."
The Sandman examined each piece of evidence the longest. He began his career stalking the mad animals of New York City's golden age, the victimizers and torturers who trafficked in fear and pain. He, too, had seen much worse violence in his day.
"In the case of the knifing, the weapon used in the murder was not used in the mutilation. The murder weapon was large and not particularly sharp, possibly a well-used kitchen knife. The victim's flesh was removed with a small and very sharp and very precise instrument. In my opinion, surgical in nature."
Mr. Terrific exchanged a long glance with the Sandman. Though he knew that beneath the gas mask his friend Wesley was kind-hearted and dear, the impassive and alien face of the Sandman always unnerved the gentle and guileless Terry Sloan.
"We do have one break," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "Working with a newly-established network of special crimes units across the country, the GCPD have recently linked these four murders to a string of murders across seven states. Keystone City, Civic City, and St. Louis have all reported similar killings in the last two years."
"Giving us more opportunities to find links and commonalities among the victims and the crimes," said the Sandman.
"Exactly, Wes," said Mid-Nite.
"Where do we start?" asked the Hourman.
"Rex, I'd like you and Terry to talk to the local victims' families. There may be more we're not hearing. Try to get information, pictures especially. Find out who was closest to the victims. I hope your reputations as working class heroes will allow you trust and access the Gotham police may have lacked."
Mid-Nite turned to the Sandman.
"Wes, you're the detective of our group. I have the addresses of the parlors where the victims received their tattoos. If there's anything about them that will lead us to the killer, I know you'll find it."
"What about you, Doc?" Terry asked. "Going solo?"
"I'll be here, Terry," Mid-Nite said. "GCPD is providing case files from the other cities. I'm also waiting for a set of files to arrive via courier from Interpol. One of my contacts in their office has informed me of similar cases in Germany, France, and the UK. There's a strong possibility our killer hopped the Atlantic from England."
"An international serial killer?" said Terry Sloan.
"The world has seen much worse," said the Sandman.
"I'll examine the evidence from the other cases, see if I can find anything in common among them. That might give us a lead to what our killer is after."
"A sound plan, Charles," said the Sandman. "If we can discern his reasons, we will discover his path."
"In the Batman's absence, it's up to us to find and eliminate this killer," Mid-Nite concluded. "I know we're up to the task. Let's get to it."
Part 4
Long after his three allies departed, Dr. Mid-Nite poured over the autopsy information. He wrote notes on long yellow pads, questions that had no answers. His study told him nothing the coroner analysis hadn't already. The victims were too dissimilar. Nothing in their backgrounds linked them. Mid-Nite doubted any of the victims had even heard of the Tattooed Man's other victims. He was certain none of them had any history with the others.
Faced with that deadend, Mid-Nite turned his studied eye on the one fact that joined the victims together; the bloody removal of their tattoos. The autopsy photos were clear. A small, precise instrument was used in each killing. If not the same knife each time, then one similar. The cuts themselves were smooth, accurate. Around the missing pieces, the flesh was intact, not torn. It was almost as if the victims had been not simply butchered, but filleted. This suggested someone with a skilled hand, a surgeon perhaps.
Mid-Nite examined the files and photos for any other physical evidence that might have come from the killer. If the victims' lives could not tell a story, Mid-Nite thought, then he would have to make the killer tell his own.
An alarm indicated a visitor at the door to the Society meeting quarters. Mid-Nite answered, greeting a uniformed officer from the GCPD who delivered the files from the other half dozen tattoo murders from across the U.S. Mid-Nite thanked him and returned to his work.
Mid-Nite spread out the new photos in chronological order. Immediately, he noticed the lack of similarities in the killings. Each, though, had a chunk of flesh removed from their person after death.
From the nature of the cuts, Mid-Nite could determine the same type of knife had been used in each mutilation. The cuts from the earliest victims, however, were raw and unskilled. The bodies of the first victims had been slashed with irregular cuts. The Doctor could see cross cuts in the earlier wounds, as the killer had performed multiple cuts to get at the flesh he wanted. Later removals looked as though they'd been accomplished with one or two swift motions, enacted by a sure hand.
Mid-Nite gazed in horror at each successive photograph as he watched the killer develop his skill at rendering flesh. If he had not already believed these murders all the work of one person, this detail would have convinced him. Mid-Nite realized his one theory--that their killer was someone already skilled with knives--was no good. The Tattooed Man was good with knives because he'd been allowed to cultivate his skill, like a grocer's apprentice given slabs of beef until he got his cuts right.
Mid-Nite removed all the autopsy information. Again, the victims had so little in common, reviewing their personal histories was almost a waste of time. Mid-Nite collected the autopsy and other file photographs of the victims. He noted with surprise that three of the previous victims had mulitple tattoos.
Quickly, Mid-Nite sorted through the autopsy information. In each case, despite the number of tattoos on the victim's body, only one tattoo had been taken. Mid-Nite arranged photos of the victims taken before their murders. In some, the stolen tattoos were clearly visible, in others, less so. Still, Mid-Nite could see the similarities in each tattoo. None of those stolen were definable shapes or traditional symbols, no anchors or flowers or pornography. Each missing tattoo was an indecipherable blot of colors, reds and yellows and oranges.
"Why that one tattoo?" Mid-Nite thought. "Where did it come from? What does it mean?"
With renewed energy, Mid-Nite began his analysis of the meaning those Rorschach blots of colored skin.
Part 5
That evening, in an urban borough of New York City, Terry Sloane and Rex Tyler completed their first task, an interview with Patty DeMarkey, neighbor of a recent victim of the Tattooed Man.
"Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. DeMarkey," said Mr. Terrific. "We know this must be difficult."
"I'll do anything I can to help, Mr. Terrific," she replied. "I think it's incredible that you both are helping the police. I would think the Justice Society has bigger things to worry about than finding some creep who killed a young girl."
"We feel very fortunate that we're in a position to help," said Mr. Terrific.
"I know the Justice Society will do everything it can to find Donna's killer," Mrs. DeMarkey continued. "I don't think the police have discovered anything."
"Some crimes are beyond the capabilities of the average police officer, but they are doing everything they can," said Hourman. "They've completed a tremendous amount of legwork that will allow us to focus our investigation."
Mrs. DeMarkey nodded.
"The mayor could take a few tips from men like you."
"We should go," said Mr. Terrific. He and Hourman stood.
"Hourman, can I ask you something?" Mrs. DeMarkey asked. "Normally, I wouldn't——given the circumstances and all——but I don't know if I'll ever have the chance to see you in person again."
"Of course."
"Do you remember a woman named Alice Kramden?"
"That name sounds familiar......"
"It was so long ago, I wouldn't expect you to remember. Alice Kramden is my grandmother. When she was very young, she married a drunk, a terrible, abusive man. She answered your classified ad offering assistance to those in need. You rescued her from that awful man. She married my grandfather a year after that."
"When I started my career, I didn't have any idea how to go about finding crime. I figured others might be able to point me in the right direction."
"Oh, grandmother pointed, all right! Not a half hour after you telephoned, you showed up at their apartment and beat the stuffing out of Ralph. Grandmother said you broke his nose and knocked out his front teeth. She didn't know how you'd get all those blood stains out of your tunic and pants. You must remember it! Of course, in forty-five years you've probably beaten up a lot of people......"
Rex blushed.
"I'm glad I was helpful."
"Oh! You were!" Patty exclaimed. "Thank you so much, Hourman."
Patty's eyes filled with tears.
"When I think about poor Donna......"
"We understand," said Mr. Terrific. He placed his hand on Patty's shoulder.
"She was going to get married this Fall," Patty continued. "We all miss her very much, the poor girl. Thank you for what you're doing. Thank you, both."
A few moments later, Hourman and Mr. Terrific returned to the street.
"I see what Doc said about you being a 'working-class hero', Rex," said Mr. Terrific. "I imagine there are hundreds of similar stories remembered throughout these neighborhoods, passed down from generation to generation."
"I've never thought of it that way, Terry," Rex replied. "I wouldn't have expected people to make the connection between those interventions and my later costumed career. My public work as Hourman was very high-profile compared to the early days."
"You obviously made an impression on that family," said Terry.
"I've always thought that your Fair Play Clubs made much more of an impact," said Rex. "How many dozens of food and clothing drives have you organized for neighborhoods like these?"
Terry shrugged. Rex punched him on the arm.
"Hundreds!" the Hourman said. "Don't be so humble all the time!"
"I've done what I can, I suppose," Terry said. "Not everyone can make their reputation beating up defenseless drunks."
Rex took a swing, which Terry easily avoided. The pair reached their car, a specially-modified undercover police cruiser. Pat Dugan, also known as the hero Stripesy, had combined the best features of the Batmobile and the Star-Rocket Racer to create a handful of these virtually indestructible roadsters for the JSA.
"What's our next destination?" Rex asked.
"Gateway."
"We'll be there by morning."
Part 1
Ray Spinely cracked a small brown egg over a hot iron skillet. As the egg white bubbled in butter, Ray pondered the two shattered halves and fit them back together, only a few small flecks missing from the whole. His action should have reminded him of himself, but didn't. He threw the broken shell towards the garbage, but missed and hit the wall. He did not stoop to pick it up.
As his eggs fried, Ray checked his wallet, found two condoms and a hundred dollars. He'd made new friends the night before, a stripper and her skinhead boyfriend, and the cab driver who picked them all up from the bar. Amii and Kyle made out in the back seat of the cab while Ray watched. Ray had slipped Amii twenty dollars, which Kyle hadn't noticed. Neither Ray nor Amii wanted the teen-age Aryan to think he was part of a show. Ray decided to be more obvious about it the next time; maybe Amii and Kyle would have an argument. That might be fun.
Ray hoped that these two might interest him the way his normal life did not. Many drug dealers frequented the bar where Amii danced. Kyle and his friends vandalized synagogues and Korean-owned groceries. Ray had no interests, so he tried to cultivate eccentricities. He bathed infrequently. He shaved his underarm hair, but did not clip his toenails. He recently sat for a tattoo.
Ray thought the tattoo might satisfy his urge for excitement. After weeks of hesitation, still too nervous to pick a design, he fidgeted relentlessly, talking non-stop to the artist about Debbie, his fictional Canadian girlfriend. He spoke of her golden hair, the diamond he'd bought her, and how they'd chosen their favorite song, "Sugar Sugar" by the Archies. By the time he finally paused, he had his tattoo, a murky crimson and orange color design, only half-outlined in a thick black line. Ray hadn't yet shown anyone the tattoo on his calf. He had no idea what it was and had been too embarrassed to ask. He hadn't yet made up a story explaining it.
Ray scooped his eggs onto a plate, breaking the yolks with the spatula. Just then, a car horn blared from the street below Ray's apartment. He skipped to the window, hoping his cab driver friend had happened by early, but saw only a brown low rider and slow-moving pedestrians giving it the finger.
From his window, Ray saw his neighbor, Old Eddie, waiting on the stoop of the building. A woman with two toddlers had stopped to chat. Another woman approached with a plate wrapped in tin foil. Old Eddie had cancer of some kind and the neighborhood loved to feed him. Ray felt a burning sensation in his stomach. It might be heartburn, he thought, but it could be cancer. He would ask Amii if she thought he'd lost weight. Ray already walked with an unnecessary limp, his awkward gait straining his knee, which caused it to swell, which caused him to limp. When he'd heard about Old Eddie's illness, Ray developed a cough, but so far, no free meals.
Ray returned to his eggs and found his plate empty. Thinking he may have dropped his dinner, he looked on the stove, on the floor. There were no eggs anywhere. Ray heard the clink of silverware behind him. He turned to see a man in his apartment, standing by his bedroom door, eating his eggs.
"Where's your tattoo?" the intruder asked. He dropped the plate of eggs on the floor.
"What?" Ray stuttered. The front door to his apartment was closed and chained. He did not know how this man could have entered his home.
"Your tattoo?" the intruder said. "Where is it? Bicep? Buttock?"
In body, the intruder looked no older than perhaps sixteen. The crow's feet around his eyes and the yellowing of his teeth aged his face. His hair was blonde and oily. Though he was slightly built and shorter than Ray by several inches, he looked stronger, more powerful. Ray rarely exercised.
"I don't have any tattoo," Ray said.
The intruder crept towards Ray, inching him into the kitchen.
"You have," said the intruder. "I smell it."
Suddenly, the intruder rushed towards Ray, big butcher's knife raised above his head. Ray scurried aside as the knife crashed down into a wall.
"What is this?" Ray thought. "What is he doing?"
Ray dove over the couch, landing hard on the bare wood floor. An end table toppled, breaking a lamp. Ray hid there a moment, expecting the intruder to make his way to the door, to leave him with a story to tell his new friends. An interesting event was finally happening to Ray, who even that moment believed that true tragedy struck only others.
"Where is it?" Ray's attacker asked again.
Ray listened as footsteps circled the couch and two boots appeared directly in front of Ray.
"What!" Ray yelled, worried now that his attacker betrayed no desire to leave.
The man grabbed Ray by the hair and lifted his head.
"It's not on your face," he said. With that, he reached down and cut Ray on the ear, a long slice from the tip to the lobe, splitting the cartilage cleanly in two.
Ray screamed and covered his ear. He drew his hand down covered with blood.
"Where is it?"
"On my leg!" Ray screamed. "My leg!"
The intruder knelt next to Ray and sliced open the back of his pants as neatly as he had Ray's ear.
"Good," he said, Ray presumed at his tattoo.
Beneath his fear, Ray felt curiosity.
"Why would someone do this?" he thought. "I wonder what Amii will think of this."
Ray felt a hard punch to his back. He had to escape before the knife man harmed him further. Ray tried to rise, but had no feeling in his right arm. The intruder hit him again. Ray felt warmth and wetness on his back. The intruder struck him a half dozen times, then a half dozen more.
Surely someone had called the police. Surely an ambulance and doctors would arrive any moment. Frank the cabby would find him. His head resting sideways on the floor, Ray watched his blood pool beneath his cheek and slowly, so slowly, creep towards the door.
For all his adult life, Ray Spinely wanted something exciting to happen to him.
Something did.
Part 2
From the journal of Wesley Dodds :
I dreamed again last night of birds, the same dream I've suffered on occasion for many months.
Two jays dance a mating ritual, spattering the gray wash of my dreaming with blue. A harrier comes, in jealousy tormenting their flesh and streaking their feathers with blood. Then appear vultures, hooked necks roiling and dodging like cobras. They pluck the color from my dream until only the oily black sheen of their bodies remains. Well fed, the vultures grow. They expand in my sight, blocking all color, all whiteness, all light. I cannot see through this curtain of tar. I cannot breathe through it. I taste kerosene and wet feathers. I smother, and choke, then awaken.
I have not related this dream to Dian. I can not bring myself to it. Though no evidence presents itself, I fear that she and I are the two jays dancing.
Part 3
"The tabloids call him The Tattooed Man," said Dr. Mid-Nite. "You may have heard of it."
Four members of the Justice Society met at the polished oak table in their meeting hall. At the chairman's spot stood Charles McNider, known here as Dr. Mid-Nite. After gangster violence robbed him of vision, he discovered that a fluke of nature allowed him to see in total darkness. He wore special dark glasses which allowed him to see in daylight and carried Black-Out smoke bombs that disoriented the criminals in his cross-hairs. His black cowl and goggles rested on the table.
"I don't read the tabloids," said Terry Sloan, the second Sentinel of Justice gathered there. Sloan wore the red cowl and green tunic of his alter-ego, Mr. Terrific, the Man of 10,000 Talents. Previously the Man of 1,000 Talents, the newspapers had recently upgraded his standing. An all-around athlete, chemist, poet, philosopher, and inventor, in any other time, Terry Sloan would have been king.
At Sloan's right sat Rex Tyler, The Hourman.
"The Gotham police don't seem to be taking this too seriously," said the Man of the Hour. Decades earlier, Tyler invented a pill granting super-strength and stamina for sixty minute periods. Criminals who feared the Man less than the Hour all learned the error of underestimating the man in the yellow-and-black costume. Tyler fidgeted impatiently with the coffee tray in front of him. He dropped a handful of sugar cubes into his cup and drank without stirring.
"Be assured that they do, Rex," said the man next to the Hourman. His voice reverberated eerily in the modified gas mask hiding his identity. One of the first of them, and the most revered, the Sandman wore the green business suit and purple cloak in which he began his career.
Mid-Nite continued.
"In the past year alone, Gotham's police have seen murder by house plant, by shrunken head, by razor sharp playing cards; a series of simple knife murders doesn't arouse much interest."
"I guess I don't see anything 'simple' about murder and mutilation, Doc," Hourman replied.
"No one does, Rex," said Mid-Nite. "But you know Gotham's reputation as well as any of us."
"I know," Hourman sighed. "What's that joke? How many murders happen in Gotham each year?"
"One of each," answered Mr. Terrific.
"The Tattooed Man's victims vary in race, age, gender, and class," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "They lived in different neighborhoods, were employed in diverse lines of work, belonged to different health clubs. Only one item links them. Each had a tattoo."
The Doctor opened an accordion file and removed a set of photographs and police reports.
"Emphasis on 'had'," he said as he distributed the information. "After each murder, the Tattooed Man excises the flesh surrounding the victim's tattoo, in most cases down past the muscle to the bone. None of these pieces have been recovered, with the victims or otherwise."
The four Society men reviewed the photos. Mid-Nite passed them along without review, his only expression a grim frown. Also a doctor in civilian life, he had seen damage to the human body far worse than any pictured there. He allowed his clinical training to suppress his human reaction to such suffering.
"We can link four victims in the Gotham Tri-State area in the last six months," Mid-Nite continued. "From photographs provided by the victims' families, we can be certain that two of the victims had their tattoos cut from their bodies. In these photos, you can see the post-mortem wound matches the tattooed area."
Mr. Terrific forced himself to view each and every photograph. He felt each wound as though his own body were affected. He could imagine the terror they knew. Despite the torment, he drank in the details, in silence honoring the suffering of the victims and affirming his commitment to finding their killer.
"You can see the similarities in size and color of those two tattoos. Unfortunately, even the best pictures we have are not very detailed. With the other two, we can only guess. As yet, we have not identified anyone who may have seen the victims' tattoos."
The Hourman visibly flinched as each autopsy photograph slid along the oak table towards him. Long accustomed to his own invulnerability, the ease with which human flesh tore always surprised him.
"The actual cause of death in each case is different," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "Two beatings, one strangulation, one knifing. Only the post-mortem mutilation is the same."
The Sandman examined each piece of evidence the longest. He began his career stalking the mad animals of New York City's golden age, the victimizers and torturers who trafficked in fear and pain. He, too, had seen much worse violence in his day.
"In the case of the knifing, the weapon used in the murder was not used in the mutilation. The murder weapon was large and not particularly sharp, possibly a well-used kitchen knife. The victim's flesh was removed with a small and very sharp and very precise instrument. In my opinion, surgical in nature."
Mr. Terrific exchanged a long glance with the Sandman. Though he knew that beneath the gas mask his friend Wesley was kind-hearted and dear, the impassive and alien face of the Sandman always unnerved the gentle and guileless Terry Sloan.
"We do have one break," Dr. Mid-Nite said. "Working with a newly-established network of special crimes units across the country, the GCPD have recently linked these four murders to a string of murders across seven states. Keystone City, Civic City, and St. Louis have all reported similar killings in the last two years."
"Giving us more opportunities to find links and commonalities among the victims and the crimes," said the Sandman.
"Exactly, Wes," said Mid-Nite.
"Where do we start?" asked the Hourman.
"Rex, I'd like you and Terry to talk to the local victims' families. There may be more we're not hearing. Try to get information, pictures especially. Find out who was closest to the victims. I hope your reputations as working class heroes will allow you trust and access the Gotham police may have lacked."
Mid-Nite turned to the Sandman.
"Wes, you're the detective of our group. I have the addresses of the parlors where the victims received their tattoos. If there's anything about them that will lead us to the killer, I know you'll find it."
"What about you, Doc?" Terry asked. "Going solo?"
"I'll be here, Terry," Mid-Nite said. "GCPD is providing case files from the other cities. I'm also waiting for a set of files to arrive via courier from Interpol. One of my contacts in their office has informed me of similar cases in Germany, France, and the UK. There's a strong possibility our killer hopped the Atlantic from England."
"An international serial killer?" said Terry Sloan.
"The world has seen much worse," said the Sandman.
"I'll examine the evidence from the other cases, see if I can find anything in common among them. That might give us a lead to what our killer is after."
"A sound plan, Charles," said the Sandman. "If we can discern his reasons, we will discover his path."
"In the Batman's absence, it's up to us to find and eliminate this killer," Mid-Nite concluded. "I know we're up to the task. Let's get to it."
Part 4
Long after his three allies departed, Dr. Mid-Nite poured over the autopsy information. He wrote notes on long yellow pads, questions that had no answers. His study told him nothing the coroner analysis hadn't already. The victims were too dissimilar. Nothing in their backgrounds linked them. Mid-Nite doubted any of the victims had even heard of the Tattooed Man's other victims. He was certain none of them had any history with the others.
Faced with that deadend, Mid-Nite turned his studied eye on the one fact that joined the victims together; the bloody removal of their tattoos. The autopsy photos were clear. A small, precise instrument was used in each killing. If not the same knife each time, then one similar. The cuts themselves were smooth, accurate. Around the missing pieces, the flesh was intact, not torn. It was almost as if the victims had been not simply butchered, but filleted. This suggested someone with a skilled hand, a surgeon perhaps.
Mid-Nite examined the files and photos for any other physical evidence that might have come from the killer. If the victims' lives could not tell a story, Mid-Nite thought, then he would have to make the killer tell his own.
An alarm indicated a visitor at the door to the Society meeting quarters. Mid-Nite answered, greeting a uniformed officer from the GCPD who delivered the files from the other half dozen tattoo murders from across the U.S. Mid-Nite thanked him and returned to his work.
Mid-Nite spread out the new photos in chronological order. Immediately, he noticed the lack of similarities in the killings. Each, though, had a chunk of flesh removed from their person after death.
From the nature of the cuts, Mid-Nite could determine the same type of knife had been used in each mutilation. The cuts from the earliest victims, however, were raw and unskilled. The bodies of the first victims had been slashed with irregular cuts. The Doctor could see cross cuts in the earlier wounds, as the killer had performed multiple cuts to get at the flesh he wanted. Later removals looked as though they'd been accomplished with one or two swift motions, enacted by a sure hand.
Mid-Nite gazed in horror at each successive photograph as he watched the killer develop his skill at rendering flesh. If he had not already believed these murders all the work of one person, this detail would have convinced him. Mid-Nite realized his one theory--that their killer was someone already skilled with knives--was no good. The Tattooed Man was good with knives because he'd been allowed to cultivate his skill, like a grocer's apprentice given slabs of beef until he got his cuts right.
Mid-Nite removed all the autopsy information. Again, the victims had so little in common, reviewing their personal histories was almost a waste of time. Mid-Nite collected the autopsy and other file photographs of the victims. He noted with surprise that three of the previous victims had mulitple tattoos.
Quickly, Mid-Nite sorted through the autopsy information. In each case, despite the number of tattoos on the victim's body, only one tattoo had been taken. Mid-Nite arranged photos of the victims taken before their murders. In some, the stolen tattoos were clearly visible, in others, less so. Still, Mid-Nite could see the similarities in each tattoo. None of those stolen were definable shapes or traditional symbols, no anchors or flowers or pornography. Each missing tattoo was an indecipherable blot of colors, reds and yellows and oranges.
"Why that one tattoo?" Mid-Nite thought. "Where did it come from? What does it mean?"
With renewed energy, Mid-Nite began his analysis of the meaning those Rorschach blots of colored skin.
Part 5
That evening, in an urban borough of New York City, Terry Sloane and Rex Tyler completed their first task, an interview with Patty DeMarkey, neighbor of a recent victim of the Tattooed Man.
"Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. DeMarkey," said Mr. Terrific. "We know this must be difficult."
"I'll do anything I can to help, Mr. Terrific," she replied. "I think it's incredible that you both are helping the police. I would think the Justice Society has bigger things to worry about than finding some creep who killed a young girl."
"We feel very fortunate that we're in a position to help," said Mr. Terrific.
"I know the Justice Society will do everything it can to find Donna's killer," Mrs. DeMarkey continued. "I don't think the police have discovered anything."
"Some crimes are beyond the capabilities of the average police officer, but they are doing everything they can," said Hourman. "They've completed a tremendous amount of legwork that will allow us to focus our investigation."
Mrs. DeMarkey nodded.
"The mayor could take a few tips from men like you."
"We should go," said Mr. Terrific. He and Hourman stood.
"Hourman, can I ask you something?" Mrs. DeMarkey asked. "Normally, I wouldn't——given the circumstances and all——but I don't know if I'll ever have the chance to see you in person again."
"Of course."
"Do you remember a woman named Alice Kramden?"
"That name sounds familiar......"
"It was so long ago, I wouldn't expect you to remember. Alice Kramden is my grandmother. When she was very young, she married a drunk, a terrible, abusive man. She answered your classified ad offering assistance to those in need. You rescued her from that awful man. She married my grandfather a year after that."
"When I started my career, I didn't have any idea how to go about finding crime. I figured others might be able to point me in the right direction."
"Oh, grandmother pointed, all right! Not a half hour after you telephoned, you showed up at their apartment and beat the stuffing out of Ralph. Grandmother said you broke his nose and knocked out his front teeth. She didn't know how you'd get all those blood stains out of your tunic and pants. You must remember it! Of course, in forty-five years you've probably beaten up a lot of people......"
Rex blushed.
"I'm glad I was helpful."
"Oh! You were!" Patty exclaimed. "Thank you so much, Hourman."
Patty's eyes filled with tears.
"When I think about poor Donna......"
"We understand," said Mr. Terrific. He placed his hand on Patty's shoulder.
"She was going to get married this Fall," Patty continued. "We all miss her very much, the poor girl. Thank you for what you're doing. Thank you, both."
A few moments later, Hourman and Mr. Terrific returned to the street.
"I see what Doc said about you being a 'working-class hero', Rex," said Mr. Terrific. "I imagine there are hundreds of similar stories remembered throughout these neighborhoods, passed down from generation to generation."
"I've never thought of it that way, Terry," Rex replied. "I wouldn't have expected people to make the connection between those interventions and my later costumed career. My public work as Hourman was very high-profile compared to the early days."
"You obviously made an impression on that family," said Terry.
"I've always thought that your Fair Play Clubs made much more of an impact," said Rex. "How many dozens of food and clothing drives have you organized for neighborhoods like these?"
Terry shrugged. Rex punched him on the arm.
"Hundreds!" the Hourman said. "Don't be so humble all the time!"
"I've done what I can, I suppose," Terry said. "Not everyone can make their reputation beating up defenseless drunks."
Rex took a swing, which Terry easily avoided. The pair reached their car, a specially-modified undercover police cruiser. Pat Dugan, also known as the hero Stripesy, had combined the best features of the Batmobile and the Star-Rocket Racer to create a handful of these virtually indestructible roadsters for the JSA.
"What's our next destination?" Rex asked.
"Gateway."
"We'll be there by morning."
