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A Gotham Tale: Harvey Bullock	By : Driftwood Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 4464 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chatham Manor, Outskirts of Gotham City
The storm was finally moving on, the rain had become intermittent and the sun was now fighting back and pulling apart the heavy grey clouds that had hung over Gotham City for days. Miss Lansing managed a smile one thing she had never truly tired of was feeling the suns warmth on her skin. She stood on the steps of the mansion, her breasts warming up as the sun splashed its warmth over her, she leaned her head back, her eyes closed letting the sun bath her face.
Miss Lansing dealt with the dark; she had done for almost three hundred years now. She had watched men take a knife to their abdomen, cut deep and pull their intestines out just to please her. One man had calmly plucked an eye from its socket in the hopes of finding favour with her and others had let her do things to them, tied up for hours on end begging and pleading as she humiliated them, forced them and finally ended their lives. Miss Lansing dealt with the dark, but a part of her still yearned for the light.
Her old eyes took in the scenery the expanse of Gotham was before her a jagged and ugly blot on the landscape. What had started off as a small trading town had blossomed or mutated depending on who you spoke to into the city before her. The families that had helped the city grow had enough brain cells between them to build their own homes, such as Chatham Manor and the much larger Wayne Manor on the outskirts of the abomination. From their front doors they could look down on their City and not worry about living in its filth.
Miss Lansing remembered passing through the port at the turn of the Twentieth century, the big steamer lumbering up the river and docking, a flood of immigrants pouring down the gang planks and disappearing into the alleyways. While the rich, such as her took their time in the pleasures of setting foot on a new continent, she had stayed at the finest hotel and then simply drifted away following Mister LaVey’s call down to the Deep South where magic still held power.
She took a deep inhale and let it out before turning and striding into the building. She removed her red cloak she took her time folding it, each fold perfect and a lined until it was a neat rectangle of red and placing it neatly on a small stand. Miss Lansing walked the rooms, opulent spaces filled with ancient furniture, rugs and in some room’s tapestries. Miss Lansing came across an Acolyte here and there, lounging about either, stoned, drunk or asleep. The males looked at her longingly as did the odd female, her nipples hardened at the knowledge of them looking at her.
A girl, hardly eighteen, painfully thin, her eyes sunk within dark circles, her black robe hanging loosely from her frame stumbled past Miss Lansing not noticing her as she went by. This was a ‘nun’ a name that had stuck since Miss Lansing had started off as one so many years ago beneath the earth, deep in a manmade cave system in West Wycombe. The girl stumbled, tripping over her own feet, her hand found the wall and she held herself up right.
Miss Lansing slowed a part of her wanted to help, could see the confusion and pain in the girls hollow eyes she came to a stop and placing one hand under the girls clammy chin lifted her face. “You need to be stronger my dear, or they will eat you alive.” The girl looked beyond Miss Lansing, and then her eyes found her and locked. The confusion ebbed then slipped as the words wormed into her mind and stuck, the girls eyes went wide with fear and tears spilled down her face. “It is too late for tears there is no going back now.”
Miss Lansing left the girl curled up crying, an acolyte had come walking over at the sound, as Miss Lansing slipped away she spared a look over her shoulder, the acolyte had already pulled the black robe off the girl, one hand held her head as he forced his cock into her mouth. Neither of them was long for this world Miss Lansing decided there and then.

Miss Lansing found The Mannequin waiting for her outside the hexagon room, facing the man was a unique experience for many. Some said it was like looking in a fair ground mirror, you could see yourself reflected back but distorted and terrible. Others would say they could not truly remember who they met, his features hard to grasp in their memory, the only thing they could confirm was that he had been there and they had conversed.
The man that lounged on the blood red leather chaise lounge smiled at her approach, his gleaming white teeth appearing beneath a bushy salt and pepper moustache, his face was thin, sunken cheeks and weathered skin that would be rough to the touch. As the man found his feet and stood up his face rippled, the cheeks filling out, young bronze skin replacing the aged the moustache vanishing, the Mannequin was a paradox, he was no one and everyone at the same time.
His Cuban heels clicked on the hard wood floor, his bright yellow jacket slipped from his body with ease, he hooked one finger into the top of it and swung it over his shoulder. With his free arm he made a sweeping gesture to the small array of cooler boxes that were neatly stacked behind the chaise lounge, “As requested.” The voice was cracked and belied the young look the Mannequin currently wore.
The man looked at Miss Lansing his smile lopsided, his eyes drinking in her large breasts, her tattooed sex and strong legs. She found the man intriguing and the animal hunger in his eyes sexually arousing, she had never dallied with a demon before it was not her thing to be sure but the man before her was a strong temptation. Her chest blushed red at the thought and the smile on the Mannequins face twisted and stretched wider, from pleasure to predator in a simple motion, the arousal slipped with it, “Mister LaVey will be pleased.”
The man before her was now black, thick lips held sternly shut as he nodded, “unusual request so close to the coming, don’t you think?” his wet glaucoma stained eyes found miss Lansing, searching for the answer to the question.
Miss Lansing was happy to share there was no hiding what had happened “The architect had a change of heart it was wise for us to close that avenue before things turned messy.”
He laughed at this, “Heart, gets all you humans into trouble you know. I think messy was unavoidable though.” He opened one cooler box, revealing Laura Beth Vandergilt’s liver sitting amongst dry ice. Miss Lansing had seen far worse and she sighed at his attempt to shock. The Mannequin shrugged, “We expecting any trouble?”
“The six is most likely finished, they have limited vision and as you said too much heart. Mister LaVey does not want to leave empty handed though.” The parts in the cooler boxes would still enact a powerful magic, not as much as when they were whole but enough to open a small doorway at least, a smile curved on her own lips now as she thought of two willing sacrifices that would seal the ritual.
“You did not answer my question, are we expecting trouble, the police are involved now you know?” The bushy beard was ginger, the eyes an ice blue, skin pale white and a flaming main of ginger hair on his head.
“The police will do their usual song and dance, and as usual we will do ours and the truth will linger near the surface but out of reach.” Miss Lansing shrugged, “The police will grow bored and disappear.”
Warren Vandergilt now stood before Miss Lansing, “And what about me, what will I say when the police knock on my door?” the look was uncanny, whatever the Mannequin called a voice box however gave him away the voice was too ancient and spoke of a millennia of use.
“Warren Vandergilt still has his part to play, as long as the gift is still on the table he will play along, they all will until it is too late.” She turned to leave the killer and his prizes she had had enough of his vulpine looks.
“You were always a mean one Molly Lansing,” the ancient voice goaded her and she spun back round, the man before her made the words choke in her throat, his face was doughy, thick eyebrows and dark curly brown hair to his shoulders. She had not seen Sir Francis Dashwood since the eighteenth century, the man that had unleashed the poor girl onto a path that had given her immortality and a wicked soul. “What, no hug?” he sung out arms stretching out, the yellow jacket discarded on the floor.
“Go fuck yourself.” Miss Lansing spat out, her fear and rage mixing together as the words flew out. She spun on her high heels and almost ran to leave the room as an old door that had been locked for centuries inside her mind burst open…

West Wycombe, England, 1752
The horse and cart trundled along the new road, once a deep rutted track it was now almost flat, chalk and flint from the neighbouring quarry crunched beneath the carts wooden wheels. The old man at the front of the cart, kept the horses moving with quick calls when they began to slow or meander near some particularly tasty looking grasses. Not once did he look over his shoulder at the people he was delivering, he had been paid handsomely as he always was for ferrying the ‘nuns’.
In the cart six women sat, black gowns covering their nakedness, and hoods pulled up high masking their faces and holding back a chill wind that had come rolling down the Chiltern Hills. Some of the girls had struck up a conversation as their journey started, but now they all sat in silence shivering now and then when a particularly cold wind caught them.
The cart finally came to a halt in a large open courtyard just outside an arched entrance, beyond which a dark cave system extended. The driver waited until a man sauntered out of the entrance dressed entirely in white, both men exchanged a nod of greeting, “If you would be so kind as to follow me,” the man was well spoken and he unlatched the back of the cart and one by one he helped each girl off. The horse and cart pulled off the moment the last girl was off.
The man led the girls, through the entrance he smiled warmly as a few of them looked up at the arched entrance a vaulted window dominating above it. A few worried looks were passed between them at the sight of a few recessed statues, there was nothing Christian in their design, “If you would like to continue,” the man offered and taking hands he gently guided them into the cave.
Molly Lansing was twenty two when she had walked through the entrance, the black robe itched her naked skin something rotten if she could she would have pulled it over her head and begun to scratch at herself right here in the cave. But the charming man gave none of them time to pause, a few gasps were heard further ahead as grotesque faces cut into the chalk walls leered out, made more ugly by the flickering torches that were equally spaced down the corridor.
Molly had the feeling of moving downwards, it was the same as when she would walk down the cliff path back home in Cornwall, the drop was steady but perceptible even in the foggiest of mornings. She passed an opening into a small room, a statue of a woman her breasts exposed, though carved from wood it still made Molly blush. They came to a junction and for the first time that evening Molly smiled at a familiar face.
Like the charming man, he wore trousers, a jacket and a cap though where the charming man wore white this man wore red. “Brother, take the others along to the hall you do not need to mind this one anymore.” Francis Dashwood said and the charming man nodded once and continued down the passageway the remaining girls following behind. “You came I feared perhaps you had continued on your journey home.” He placed one hand behind her and ushered her away from the junction.
“I tried but my money would only get me so far,” she replied, Francis nodded and sighed as she spoke she was aware that the man was perhaps only half listening, “the roads were too dangerous to travel alone, so…” She felt Francis’ hand push her a bit more firmly as he guided her down another corridor that unlike the others remained unlit. Her heart skipped and she tried to stop but Francis would have none of it.
They came to a stop by a wooden door, he knocked three times, “That’s not the secret knock,” a voice mocked from the other side.
“There is no secret knock you buffoon,” Francis replied and Molly knew that if it were any lighter she would have seen the man’s cheeks turn red.
“Not when you left, but we decided that it was perhaps a good idea that our inner sanctum remains protected,” the voice replied back the words slurring slightly. Another voice, lower retorted from behind the door, both men whispering then getting louder, “Oh fine!” the drunk said and a heavy bolt could be heard slipping back.
The light that poured out hurt Molly’s eyes for a moment, she had no time to adjust as Francis pushed her in as he spoke harshly to the drunken man. She came to a halt in the middle of the room she stayed stock still her eyes though swept in every direction. Candles burnt in their dozens on rocky outcroppings all around, the furniture here was sparse a few chairs a bookcase filled with leather books and manuscripts and small economical wooden chairs. Beneath Molly’s feet the unforgiving cave floor was now dulled by a rather expensive looking rug.
“So this is her, eh Abbott?” The drunken man swept into her view, Molly lowered her head keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the rug. “Look up girl,” the man said pointedly and Molly lifted her head. The man was almost bald his cheeks flushed red with drink his white tunic bore splashes of pale red. When he spoke again she noted the red staining of his teeth from wine.
“Brother Potter could you please be a little less impolite to our guest,” The voice was soft and came from off to Molly’s right, her head started to turn but at the last moment she stopped and kept staring ahead at Brother Potter.
“Thank you Brother Whitehead, please sit down Brother Potter,” Francis said and with one withering look from Brother Potter he turned and sat down in one of the wooden chairs. “Now if you could remove your robe for us.”
Molly paused, only moments ago she had wanted rid of the robe and its hateful itching now that she could she felt the need to keep the robe on. She had not been naked in the company of men often, her last employer had wanted her to be but she had left soon after, there was not much else she could have done after the Lord’s wife had caught them, Molly’s breasts exposed with his lordship suckling at them. Molly bent down and took the hem of the robe and pulled it swiftly up and off before she lost her nerve.
Brother Potter’s mouth fell open and he quickly shut it, a scowl on his face trying to hide the lust that had so suddenly filled it. Francis smiled, no beamed from ear to ear his hands tapping a merry jig on his red trouser knees. Molly turned her head and finally caught sight of Brother Whitehead. He was younger than the other two men but not by much, he was what the serving girls in London called a bachelor, she felt her stomach fill with butterflies, his white cap was off and his brown hair hung near his shoulders in an aloof manner. He smiled at her with ease, his eyes glinting in the candle light.
Molly’s hands drifted up to cover her breasts and bush, a smirk started to form on Brother Potter’s mouth and she willed her arms down, the smirk turned ugly, “Yes, yes lovely breasts and a fine bush,” Brother Potter said just before taking a swig of wine from his gold goblet, “but I don’t see…”
“Turn around for the gentleman if you could be so kind Molly,” Francis said calmly overriding the drunk. Molly turned, she faced the young Brother Whitehead and continued turning until she had done a full circle.
“That mark on your arm?” Brother Whitehead asked as he stood up, he took her right arm and turned it up, allowing light to splash across it and ran his finger across the burnt tissue on her upper arm, his touch sent goose bumps bursting on her flesh, the man acted as if he had not noticed. “A branding iron, was it an accident?”
Molly shook her head, “Our village Pellar, she marked me.” For the briefest of moments Molly’s ears filled with the sound of the screaming hag, the jeering crowd that had been made up of villagers and even her own parents and the sizzling of Molly’s flesh as the brand bit.
“Whose Pellar, is that your father, your uncle?” Brother Potter asked.
Brother Whitehead’s finger traced the scar tissue as he spoke, “Pellar is Cornish for witch you dolt. Each village has one that helps the cursed, the afflicted. She is the reader of runes and of bones heed her advice and a good crop you will have by harvest festival” His hazel eyes drifted up and caught Molly’s, he gave a smile that made her heart skip, “The Order of Knights of West Wycombe are no strangers to the spiritual and occult.” He motioned towards Brother Potter, “The few of us who care to learn anyway.”
“You saw her back?” Francis offered.
Brother Whitehead nodded, “Why were you driven from your village?” The old scars of a severe whipping crisscrossed her back and were unmistakable as she had turned to show each man.
“The hag Trewin, that’s the Pellar she saw something in me, powerful enough that it scared her, claimed to my kin that I was cursed. She branded me a demon before the village elders,” a tear pulled free of her eye and ran down her cheek, “my family turned their back on me even as I begged to be heard. They whipped me until I was beyond the village.” She looked at each man individually as she spoke, “I am not a demon.”
Brother Potter leaned forward in his chair, his goblet held carelessly in his left hand, “No you are not, but the uninformed fear what they do not understand,” his drunken slur was hardly noticeable as he now spoke, his words heavy and grave, “You are someone with great potential it seems,” he looked over at Francis Dashwood and nodded in surrender, “you were right to bring her here Abbot, but I wonder if she is up for the task.”
Brother Whitehead’s hands found her shoulders they travelled across her chest meeting between her collarbones, then like a lover’s hand would they travelled down, his soft palms brushing her nipples, his palms feeling the weight of each breast. He paused a moment then his hands moved down across her stomach, her full bush rubbed against his hands and her legs parted for him ever so slightly but his touch went no further. “Our order allows a mutual mix of men and women, we are all equal. Our Abbot, Francis Dashwood is leader. You will be treated no differently from anyone else in our order.”
Brother Potter rubbed at the whiskers on his chin and cheeks, “Fais ce Que tu voudras,” he sat back, his goblet discarded, the red liquid spilling onto the stone floor and rug. “Do what thou wilt.”
Molly swallowed hard, what she wanted to do was run, but where, his lordship would have nothing to do with her his wife would see to that. Back home, to what? She would more than likely be killed if she was to turn up at the village again. But she was heading that way when Francis Dashwood had come to her at the docks, she had offered him her body for safe passage but he had offered her another way.
Molly dropped to her knee’s, Brother Whitehead’s trousers bulged near her face, the simple knot above came undone and the white trousers fell away, his cock sprung free rigid between the two of them. She had done it once before, leaving Southampton for London, the trader had offered her passage if she did him a favour. Now she did as she had been instructed to then, she took Brother Whitehead’s cock at its base pulling the mass of flesh forwards, her mouth opening and taking his purple head into her mouth, she fed more in until she felt she would gag and slowly she began a rhythmic back and forth motion.
There was motion on either side of her, she glanced and gasped around the hard cock in her mouth, Brother Potter was to her right, his cock thick and big, its head a bruised purple that seemed to pulse, to her left Francis Dashwood stood, his cock thin and long almost stately in its proportions. She felt their hands on her back, finding her breasts and rump. Brother Whitehead dropped to his knee’s his cock popping free of Molly’s mouth for a moment until she had lowered herself onto her hands and knees.
She felt one of them behind her, his hands on her backside, then fingers over her sex, slipping between her lips, parting them finding her sex moist and ready. The hands moved, now something else nudged there, she gave a slight gasp as he entered her. His own back and forth motion giving more to her own back and forth motion on Brother Whiteheads cock, a low moan from behind and she felt the cock inside her pulse as hands gripped her backside he slipped free the sound wet as he did so.
Now other hands were on her backside, coarser than the first she felt him nudge at her wet used sex, it was Brother Potter she had no doubt. Without pause he pushed forward, his cock stretching her as it filled her and kept going deeper. Molly let out a long moan, Brother Whitehead’s cock slipping free just as he erupted. Molly caught her breath as she felt the warm fluid splash across her cheeks and nose. Brother Potter sped up his thrusts sending his cock deeper into her, stretching her further, the power behind the thrusts finally took Molly’s arms from under her and shell fell forwards her face scrapping across the carpet with each deep thrust until he gave a guttural roar and for the second time that evening Molly felt a cock spasming inside her, filling her up.
“Do what thou wilt. Do what thou wilt.” Brother Potter repeated breathlessly.
Molly found her arms and lifted herself up, her legs ached, her sex tingled with the tiniest of movements she fell onto her backside taking in gulps of air, one hand wiping at her face feeling the sticky mess that was cooling on her skin. The three men looked at her Francis Dashwood had a lopsided curious smile on his face, “Do what thou wilt.” He urged.
There was more to this than she had thought, the girls she had arrived with were no doubt experiencing the same thing as her, perhaps with many more, who knew what lay in the caves. Yet here in this room it felt like the act was almost an opening and Fais ce Que tu voudras, that was the key. The looks she saw about her, curious not at what they had done to her but what she was now about to do perhaps.
““Fais ce Que tu voudras,” Molly said as she crawled on all fours over to Brother Potter, “Do what thou wilt,” She pushed the man backwards, he let out a squawk of surprise as Molly mounted him, her sex dripping slid up his stomach, his chest she gave a wicked smile that for a moment brought fear to the man’s eyes until she lowered herself onto his face, she moaned slightly as his tongue found her puffy lips and a moment later sank into her well used hole.
Brother Whitehead clapped, “Welcome to the order Miss Lansing.”
“Yes indeed welcome to our order, you have a lot to learn.” Dashwood added. Molly heard the words and felt a ball of ice form in her stomach.

Miss Lansing burst into the well cared for garden, one heel snapped, caught on a slightly lifted tile she kicked the shoe to one side discarding it along with the memory that had come rushing back. She fell to her knees on the grass, the wetness of it cooling her flushed skin. She turned her head skywards and screamed until she was hoarse.
The apartment of Laura Beth Vandergilt,
Harvey was unsure how he had gotten back to the apartment, he knew he was sleep deprived but not to the extent that a car journey could be so easily forgotten. The sun was coming in through the living room window and for the first time on his visits he could see the apartment as somewhere that a person could live, it was not homely by any stretch of the imagination but it had lost its air of dread. That was everywhere except the bedroom, as Harvey walked towards the corridor that would take him to the bedroom night still seemed to exist here. The sunlight tapered then slipped into inky night, the door frame acting like a border for both.
Harvey stood there now looking into the bedroom, the fitted wardrobe that was anything but fitted still stood where he and Batman had moved it the shrine visible. It was from the shrine that the night seemed to emanate, the small chipped ceramic bowl pulsed and black smoke that twinkled with the thought of a thousand stars drifted down its side and gathered in the gloom.
Harvey stood before the shrine now, he could hear voices, raised ones, cautious ones, crying too from further off, the neighbours were up and about unaware of the darkness that was filling the apartment next door. Harvey reached out, his fingers touching the bowl and with a hiss he pulled his hand back, heat blisters already bubbling to the surface of his skin on the tips of his fingers.
A figure formed to his left, tall and dark, Harvey hated it when Batman snuck up on him…only this was not Batman, the figure was immense in his width, and it was a him even without seeing the face the power that radiated from the form was male he could feel it. “Open up Harvey,” the voice deep, laced with sickly sweet and venomous poison all at the same time, a hand rose from the blackness and landed like a tombstone on his shoulder.

Gotham PD
Harvey’s chair collapsed under him and he fell in heap to the floor much to the delight of his fellow detectives who cheered and clapped. He scrambled as best he could, breathless from the fall and from the dream. He flipped the finger to the other detectives then pulled his chair back up, the rear leg snapped, he let it go and the chair fell to the ground.
The paperwork was still on the table though now it had been scattered when one of his flailing feet had connected with it. He shuffled it back together in some form of order he had fallen asleep at his desk while pouring over the same old photographs and coroner’s report. He closed the manila folder and placed the two sheets he had printed out a few hours ago on top, one was of the shrine as he had found it, and the other was the augmented image Batman had managed to get.
Harvey rubbed at his face, the faint scars from Axis Chemical were rough on his palm, he grimaced as his fingertips shot through with pain he pulled his hand away and noticed that his four fingers were blistered at their tips. “What the hell?” he muttered to himself. Someone whispered a reply close to his ear that made Harvey look around in surprise only to find no one there. There was low hush as if the whisperer had moved slightly off, only now he could hear more whispering. “Not whispering,” Bullock said to himself, it was as if the volume had been turned down.
He could hear the station as he could every other day of the week, the clipping of a keyboard, the almost constant ring of telephones and mobiles. Detectives were talking about last night’s game or bitching about the lack of action from their wife or girlfriend, these were the normal sounds. But beneath that there were others, low murmurs that spoke the same as the officers but with different words, it was like watching two television shows at the same time.
“You okay Harvey,” Travis said, and like that the spell was broken. The murmurs turned off as if someone had hit a switch. “Have you been here all night?”
Harvey looked around, his forehead creasing, a dull headache behind his eyes starting up, “Yeah, fell asleep at my desk.” The words came out slowly.
“Well you need a shower and a new shirt, Akins will have your ass if he sees you like that.” As Travis spoke the name, the Captain’s door opened and Akins stepped out. The man made no attempt to look anywhere else except at Bullock and Travis, “Games up.”
Akins had heard Bullock fall onto the floor, he looked up from his morning coffee and bagel as the other detectives clapped and cheered. When he saw Bullock get to his feet, eyes blurry a beard atleast eight days old and a sweat stained shirt over his doughy frame he was seeing the Detective Harvey Bullock of old. The man was drunk or hung over, either way he would get the bastard suspended and give the Vandergilt case to someone else.
Akins was filled with a giddy glee at the possibility of getting Bullock out of his department. He dialled the number for the desk sergeant, “Morning Cap’” the voice answered after two rings.
Akins kept his eye on Bullock the man was looking about dazed and confused, Christ was he high? “Yeah, can you get me the log of when Detective Bullock signed off and back in?”
Akins could hear fingers on a keyboard working away, a whistle of a familiar tune on the desk sergeants lips, “Okay, he’s pulled an all-nighter, hell he’s been going almost two days.” Akins asked the officer to double check, then triple check. With a curt goodbye he hung up.
Akins got up just as Detective Travis had turned up he beckoned both men into his office. He waited behind his desk he remained silent as the two men sat down. Akins found it difficult to mask the look of distaste on his face when he caught a whiff of Bullock. “So where are we on the Vandergilt case?”
Harvey knew that Akins had dumped the case on them just to be rid of them, how was he to know that Warren Vandergilt’s daughter was the victim, when word got around Harvey had been reliably informed that the Captain had hit the roof and tried to get Harvey pulled but old man Gordon had refused. Harvey pulled the first image of the shrine from on top of his file and placed it on the table for Adkins to see. “I found this last night, it was well hidden and pure luck and chance made me find it.”
Akins shook his head, “Yes I have a report here from a young officer,” Akins lifted a single sheet of paper off his desk, “You entered the crime scene without authorisation and back up.”
“It’s my case Captain and if the Crime scene boys had done their jobs I would not have had to go back,” Harvey’s voice began to rise, but Travis tapped him ever so gently on the shoulder letting the man know he was going too far, “and I had back up from the flat foot.” Sure the rookie had run off to get Harvey a coffee, but Harvey knew that the kid would not have put that in the report, it was his job to keep the crime scene secured and not leave his post.
Akins glanced quickly at the report and almost slammed it down on the table, “Get my permission next time,” he glowered. “Tell me about this, whatever it is.”
Even Travis perked up now, Bullock had not even had time to fill his partner in on what he had found, both he and Akins were hearing all this for the first time. “It’s a shrine by the looks of thing I have samples of the wood and of trace in that ceramic bowl down at the labs already.”
“A Shrine to whom?” Travis asked, he did not look over to meet Akins eyes but he knew the man had now figured out all this was news to him too.
Harvey shrugged, “Nobody good,” He placed the augmented picture on the table next the reaction of both men was the same, creased brows, a look of utter confusion then discomfort. “Yeah it’s not the usual deity we see in Gotham City, the writing or runes I guess, need deciphering and we need to figure out what little cult all this belongs to.”
Akins sat back in his chair, he was surprised at Bullock, he hated the man but somehow he was trying to be a detective and by some miracle it seemed to be working, “No trace on the missing organs?” Harvey shook his head. Akins looked at the print outs and shook his head, “Are we looking at a ritual killing here?”
“The evidence is stacking up in favour of that. But our line of questioning is going to be limited until we figure out that image.” Harvey knew Akins had seen the report, the total lack of evidence, hard or trace had brought the case grinding to a halt.
“Go speak with Mister Vandergilt, see if his daughter mentioned anything on her travels about finding religion or new whacky friends with a penchant for ritual killings.” Akins picked up his bagel, he stared at it his hunger now slightly diminished, “it might be a risk but show him the drawing, something might click.”
“Will do Captain,” Harvey gathered his file and both he and Travis got up and left. Harvey knew something was up, he could feel it and when he and Travis got back to their desk he knew what words were going to come out of Travis’ mouth before he spoke them so he jumped in with both feet, “So out with it already, why do you want off the case?”
Travis’ eyes went wide, his thought aired but not from his lips, “How did you know I wanted off?”
Harvey shrugged, “You could not wait to get out of the crime scene, you finished early yesterday and turn up late today, heck the expression on your face when you saw the drawing spoke volumes.” Travis reached under his collar and pulled out a thin silver chain, a small silver cross dangled at the end of it. “I never had you pegged for a God Lover.”
Travis snorted a laugh as he slipped the cross away, “Where do you think I went every Sunday,”
“Picnics with the family?” Harvey offered.
“Seeing that girl the other day that scared me more than dealing with the usual whacko’s of Gotham City. Then this morning that shrine and that drawing,” the man shivered, “there is crazy evil then there is rooted evil. Whatever that thing in that pit was that was real evil, and I don’t think I am strong enough to face that, how about you?”
Harvey’s dream came back to him, the mass of black that had taken on a human form and he rubbed at his burnt fingertips, it was not the first time he had entered the apartment from a dream but it was the first time it had interacted with him, “I have done things I am not proud of, I doubt I can make amends in this lifetime for all the shit I have done, but if I can atleast erase some of it with finding whoever killed that girl and the reason for it, if that’s what it takes then I am the man for the job.”
Travis shook his head, resigned to the fate that perhaps awaited Harvey, “Then you do it on your own Harvey,” the next line spoken seemed to fortuitous for both men, “And may God have mercy on your soul.”
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A Gotham Tale: Harvey Bullock