The Crimson Lady

Among the ominous streets of Gotham, beneath the glow of neon lights, a young man ran desperately through the puddles.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just had to get away…

His shirt was soaked from the rain, and he was gasping for breath. In his panic, he took a wrong turn and found himself trapped in a dead-end alley.

He turned around in panic.

“Please… Please, spare my life. I’ll do anything you want. M-Money… I’ll give you all my money. Please, I’m begging you!”

At the entrance of the alley stood two people dressed in suits. They held silenced pistols in their hands. Their faces were impossible to make out; the shadows cast by their hats covered their eyes like masks.

The woman in the suit stepped forward.

“Your begging won’t change anything, Mr. Lawrence… The Lady has decided that you are nothing more than an unnecessary burden to this world.”

Before Lawrence could understand what was happening, he collapsed to his knees.

Then, with a single gunshot, he fell to the ground.

The other man in the suit cleaned up the evidence. He retrieved the bullet casing and removed the bullet from the man’s chest.

Meanwhile, the woman made a call on a disposable phone.

She said only one sentence:

“It’s done, Boss.”

The next morning,

Gotham Police were examining the body.

The sky had cleared, and the rain had stopped. A garbage collector who had discovered the body had immediately called the police.

Behind the yellow police tape, uniformed officers were keeping the curious crowd away. On the other side of the tape, the forensic team was busy collecting evidence.

Detective Camilla walked toward the crime scene, carrying two hot coffees. She approached her partner, a man considerably older than her.

Camilla’s hair was hastily tied back, and her sleepy eyes made it obvious that she hadn’t gotten much sleep. She held out the second cup of coffee to him.

“Morning, Woodman.” She yawns. “Who’s our victim today?”

Woodman didn’t look tired or sleepy at all. In his deep, raspy voice, roughened by years of smoking, he replied:

“Morning to you too, Vega. Maybe you should finally cut back on the drinking.”

Camilla rolled her eyes.

“Get to the point.”

“Thirty-eight-year-old male. One gunshot wound to the chest.”

Camilla lifted the yellow police tape and walked toward the crime scene.

“Nothing else? That’s it?”

“No. According to his ID, his name is Lawrence Stone.”

The moment she heard the name, all of Camilla’s sleepiness vanished. Her eyes widened.

“Lawrence Stone? The famous lawyer?”

Woodman nodded.

Camilla looked toward the body.

“This suspect list is going to be a long one…”

Woodman slowly scanned the street, holding his gaze on the dark buildings surrounding them for a long moment.

“It’s a strange place for a rich man to die, don’t you think? This neighborhood is practically on the edge of the shantytowns. A man like Stone would normally never go near a place like this.”

Camilla glanced at the surrounding streets.

“You’re right. Men like him stay in the city center—skyscrapers, private clubs, chauffeurs waiting at the door… so what was he doing here in this dead-end street?” She paused for a moment and looked at Stone’s body. “Some people are so afraid of Gotham that they won’t even step out of their cars.”

Woodman let out a quiet, unsarcastic laugh.

“Money can buy you a lot of things, Vega. But safety isn’t one of them.”

Camilla looked at him.

“Not in Gotham.”

Woodman shook his head.

“Even if Batman is watching from the rooftops. This city always finds a way to remind you who’s really in control.”

Vega glanced down at the body.

“Maybe the bullet will give us something. Might make our job a little easier.”

Just then, a Black man in a white lab coat turned toward them.

“No bullet, Vega… No casing either.”

Woodman and Vega immediately became more serious.

Woodman’s voice hardened.

“What do you mean? Did it pass straight through him? Or is it missing?”

The Black medical examiner stood up. His ID badge read James H. Ford.

He closed the file in his hands.

“No exit wound. If you ask me, someone pulled the bullet out. We’ll know for sure once the autopsy is done.”

He glanced toward the body.

“That’s all we’ve got here.”

Vega nodded slowly.

“Alright… If there’s no evidence left at the scene, we’d better head back to the precinct.”

Vega and Woodman returned to the Gotham Police Precinct, where they met up with the rest of their team, Detective james Lee and Detective Ashley Fox.

Fox was the youngest and least experienced member of the team. She had only recently been transferred to Homicide and was still getting used to the pace of the job. Standing beside the evidence board, the young woman was pinning photographs and notes into place, trying to piece together what little they had.

Across the room, Lee sat at a computer, quietly digging through records and databases. His unusual features, a subtle reminder of his demonic heritage, often drew curious looks from people who didn’t know him. He paid them no attention. His eyes remained fixed on the screen.

The moment Lee noticed Vega and Woodman entering the room, he looked up.

“Morning. What’ve we got?”

Woodman took off his brown trench coat and tossed it over the back of his chair.

“Nothing,” he said wearily.

Vega filled them in.

“No fingerprints. No bullet. No casing. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”

Woodman took a sip of his coffee, his eyes fixed on the case board.

“Someone needs to notify the family.” He paused for a moment. “Then we find out what the hell Mr. Lawrence was doing in that rundown part of town in the first place.”

Lee didn’t change his expression.

“Alright. We’ll go.”

Just then, Fox turned away from the crime board. She had finished putting everything together.

“This might be a coincidence,” she said, “but in the three previous cases I worked on, the victims all had a history of violence against women. Look.”

The three previous cases…

How could they have forgotten?

All three had been quietly closed due to insufficient evidence.

The first was a construction worker who had beaten his wife badly enough to put her in the hospital.

The second was a nurse who had given his girlfriend a black eye.

The third was a history teacher who had pushed his wife down a flight of stairs.

And the worst part?

Not one of those men had ever been punished for what they had done.

Different circumstances, different excuses. Some had gotten away because of legal technicalities. Others had received reduced sentences for “good behavior.”

Fox looked at the photographs pinned across the board.

“Three men. Three victims. Three cases that went nowhere.”

She paused.

“And now we have Lawrence Stone.”

“Someone is targeting men with a history of violence against women…”

Woodman stared at the board for a moment before speaking.

“So what did Lawrence do?”

Fox shuffled through the papers in her hands.

“He assaulted one of his female employees.”

Fox shuffled through the papers, her expression slowly tightening.

“She was his housekeeper… and according to the report, she had burn marks on her hands. The case was closed before it ever made it to court.”

The room fell silent for a moment.

Lee slowly began twirling the pen between his fingers.

“Yeah… Lawrence was one of the best—and richest—lawyers in Gotham.” He paused, his eyes fixed on the case board. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he paid her off… or made a deal with the judge.”

Woodman frowned.

“So the bastard had a history.”

“Looks like it,” Lee replied.

Vega stared at the photographs pinned across the board.

“The other three men all ended up dead too. Different places, different scenes… but whoever killed them was never found.”

Lee stopped twirling his pen.

“And now Lawrence Stone turns up dead with a bullet in his chest.”

Fox looked at the photographs again.

“Four men. All with a history of violence against women.”

A moment of silence.

“Maybe we’re not dealing with a coincidence anymore.”