Author: Koslov

De’Roy Harris, D-Train as he was known on the street, was nearly out of breath when he tripped and fell on the roof. Still, he had been lucky to make it up the stairs with his pants half-on. The former All-City running back felt bits of gravel bite into his knee and the hand he caught himself with. He pushed himself off the ground, scared for his life. His heart beating so loud, his breath so ragged that he didn’t notice the crunch of asphalt and gravel crunch under booted foot.

Cough. One silenced round came spitting out of the end of the vigilante’s pistol.

“Arrgh! Jesus, God ...” D’Train was spun around by the force of the bullet and landed, clutching what remained of his left hand.

“Where is the girl?” The vigilante asked through clenched teeth.

“Who?” D’Train shouted back.

“You’re going to die up on this roof, De’Roy. If you tell me where the girl is, you’ll die fast.” The vigilante lowered his weapon and stepped on his victim’s arm, near where the hand should have been.

“Arrgh! Goddamnit! What?” He rolled to protect his arm.

“The girl. Tell me where you took her.” The vigilante’s voice was quiet and calm, with the chaos and blood all around, it was an eerie contrast.

D’Train started talking. The vigilante knew some, but the gang-banger confirmed much. Still, it was just a connection to the middle-man.

When the ‘banger had stopped talking. The vigilante put a second bullet in him: this time center mass. The special shell he used made it look like the target had been hit by a shotgun. He nodded; recovered his brass and placed a single card next to his head. The blue crescent moon caught the light as the vigilante faded back into the night.

“We have a problem.” FBI Special Agent Randy Staley said. She was new to the Hudson City office and fresh out of the Academy. That made her perfect for this post. Too new that she was bought; too young to think of the risks of being an honest cop in Hudson City.

“Oh?” David Bailey said. He was the Special Agent In Charge of the Hudson City Organized Crime unit and he was riding high. With very few strokes, the hero Nemesis had taken down nearly an entire crime family. He was even good enough to provide the US Attorney with trial-usable evidence.

Staley placed the HCPD folder on her boss’ desk. “Take a look, we have a new player in town.”

Bailey opened the folder. “Jesus.” He exclaimed looking at the crime-scene photos. Four murders, four criminals, all similar: high caliber, pre-fragmented rounds; all with a calling card. “Tell me what you know about this.” He pointed for her to take a chair.

In standard FBI-speak, she started giving him the details. “The first vic is De’Roy D-Train Harris. He was the number two ranking member of the 187s, a gang running out of Freetown, but looking to expand north of the river. He was found nine days ago on a rooftop on building D of the Mitchell Heights Apartment complex off D and Sixth. He was shot twice; best guess is that our killer missed with his first shot (which hit him in the hand) and it took a second shot to ensure the kill.” She paused to point out the autopsy photos. “As you can see, he wouldn’t have lived very long with that hand missing; but he could have lived long enough to draw attention to himself.”

Bailey picked up the card from the evidence pile. “Any idea what this means?” He asked her.

“Yes, we have some idea.” Staley said, she pulled clippings from the Hudson City Mirror, they were old and yellowed. “This is from 1954.” She said, handing him the paper. The headline read “Blue Moon Killer slays seven”. The rest of the stories relayed the brief, but bloody career of Richard Vestal, AKA, the Blue Moon Killer.

Vestal, they read, was a decorated cop and Korean War veteran. When he returned home to Hudson City, the corruption had become too much for him. He took his military training and his knowledge of the Hudson City criminal underworld and made a private war.

Vestal had been killed in a famous shoot-out at the Bankhurst Theater. His body was reputedly shot so full of lead that it took six men to dump him into the river.

“Here’s the file on Vestal.” Staley said placing that on Bailey’s desk. Both FBI agents spent several minutes going over the old evidence, including the calling cards.

Finally, Bailey looked up, “Tell me about the other three.”

“Victim number two is Paolo Money Maldini. He worked for the Torccone mob, mostly small time guy. He was driving the car of Christian Brocchi, when he was shot in the face at close range. As you can see from the photo, the bullet didn’t leave much of him left. He was killed along side Victim number three.”

Bailey nodded. “Was the window rolled down?”

“The ME thinks so. There were no glass fragments in his face.” Staley answered. She waited to see if there was a follow on before proceeding.

“Victim number three is Christian Checkers Brocchi.” Staley continued. “He was about 64 and ran two charity organizations; but was rumored to have mob connections. Checkers and Money were shot in Checker’s car outside Santo’s Family Restaurant. Checker’s mistress had just gotten into the car, then he was shot. She was left alive, but pretty scared.”

“Last, we have Massimo ...”

“Ambrosini.” Bailey finished for her. Someone had killed the old man. “Oh God.” The senior agent said, moving D’Train’s file aside. He looked at the three mobsters. “Fuck. We do have a problem.”

“Yes. This new Blue Moon Killer just killed the only three members of the Torccone family that Nemesis couldn’t produce evidence against.” They both looked at each other, they had such hopes for Nemesis.

“You don’t think?” She asked.

“Do we have any choice?”

File Closed