OOC - This is just a setup post, so please feel free to take it in any direction you want.
Gotham City. For hundreds of years, the city has been a breeding ground for corruption. If the seven deadly sins of the Bible were to ever have an entire city in their honor, it would be Gotham City. It has a way of changing people, and not for the best. Money talks, and if you didn't have money, or worse; owed money, then you were a liability to those in control. Liabilities are dealt with only one way: execution. If you couldn't participate with the system established by those in power, you were cut off, and run down. Of course, there are worse fates than death. The Families would strip you of your reputation, your job, your money, and leave you to fight for your life on the filthy streets more often than not. Death is considered a favor, and not so much a punishment.
Carmine Falcone, the Don of the Falcone Crime Syndicate. There isn't a police officer, journalist, politician, lawyer, or judge that this man does not have in his pockets. The Falcone family are vicious types, yet they abide by a very strict code of honor among thieves. The police Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb stated in an interview that he paralleled the Falcone family to that of the Corleone family: Falcone's power and wisdom akin to Vito Corleone, his son Alberto's personality and appearance that of Fredo Corleone, and his daughter Sofia's temper matching that of Sonny Corleone. Lastly, his elder son Mario's deportation to Sicily, physical appearance and desire to legitimize the Falcone family are all traits shared with Michael Corleone.
Then, you have Salvatore Maroni, Boss of the Maroni Crime Syndicate. He's more direct in his methods to maintain his control over his own territory of Gotham. The Maroni family, like the Falcones, are extremely aggressive when it comes to using their power. Maroni is more of a hot head than Carmine, however, and is more prone to violent outbursts at the slightest hint of disobedience, or worse; disrespect. Maroni, and his family, control the West End (Diamond District), of Gotham, and Otisburg. While the Falcones control the East End, and Burnley.
Now, despite these two superpowers possessing the city, completely; there are those that challenge their authority, and even try to forcibly take their own cut of the town. The most recognized of these such businessmen, is Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. Known to his enemies, and feared by his own men as the Penguin, Cobblepot's ability to track down state of the art firearms, while keeping an ear out for the latest news in town, makes him a nearly invaluable asset to the controlling Families. Using his position as an arms deal, and a source of intel, Cobblepot has secured himself a nice little club labeled The Iceberg Lounge, located in the Diamond District, as well as a cut of some of the Maroni's profit.
Spawn enough greed in Gotham City, and someone is bound to rise up to snatch the opportunities for advancement, in order to create a name for themselves. To secure a little slice of the town, paid with blood on their hands. Tonight seemed to be one of those nights, as the fog canvased the city in a billowy nimbus of grey white. The streets were all soaked through the pavement, from the recent rain, only in this particular alley on the East End, known to the locals as Crime Alley. It achieved that name after the brutal mugging of one of Gotham's elite socialites, the Wayne family. Thomas, and Martha Wayne were gunned down by a desperate thief, named Joe Chill. After taking their money, and ripping off Martha's pearl necklace, he gunned them down in that alley as their only son watched in horror.
Lying in a puddle of soaked, crusty blood, the body of one of Gotham's denizens. Positioned neatly, as if he was just resting, hands folded over his chest, like someone about to be interred. The face was gone, burnt to a charred black skull, however the rest of the body was intact. A tall, chubby, unshaven, man of about forty stared down at the body. Wearing a light grey trench coat over a white shirt and red tie, with a matching grey fedora atop his head. A Gotham City Police Department badge was clipped to his hip for identification. Detective Harvey Bullock, looked to his left at the officer examining the body, while taking pictures of the evidence.
"Whadda we got here, Bert?" Bullock asked, almost as if he was bored of this investigation already. Lighting up a cigarette, he had just placed between his lips, he took a long drag before releasing a huge stream of smoke into the air around him.
"Deceased's name is Gerald Warner. I knew this guy for about 3 years now. He's a drug peddler, and presumably an enforcer for the Falcone family, though we never could get anything on him to prove it." Officer Bert responded.
"What makes you sure he was working with the Roman an' his kin? For all ya know, this clown was just a two-bit nobody who sold cheap, cut, drugs." Bullock retorted, clearly irritated that some officer was making assumptions.
"Like I said, I knew the guy, Bullock. He was also a bouncer in one of Falcone's nightclubs on weekends, from the looks of it, they paid him well. Seemed to me he was making more money than just drug money." Bert replied quickly, shaking his head at Bullock's own theory.
"So why go through all the trouble'a killin' the kid? Why gun 'im down, an' burn his face off?" Bullock asked to no one in particular.
"Probably to send a message, ya know like, 'don't fuck with us.'" Officer Aaron Cash said as he walked back over to Detective Bullock, after just taking a statement from the nearby witness.
"I don' get it, so what did yer boy have t'say back there?" Bullock asked Cash.
"Guy just heard a couple of loud shots, about an hour ago, at 11:24 P.M. He freaked, and ran off to call 911. He then made it back, about 30 minutes later to the smell of something burning, upon investigating the ally, he stumbled across the victim as we see him now. Shot, posed, and face melted off." Cash reported.
Bullock nods, and tilts his head to look at the body some more. "What gets me is the way the body is positioned, no way the kid fell like that. Makes no sense."
"Yeah, got me there. No idea." Bert chimed in. Bullock snapped a look at him, clearly irate now.
"Look, kid, I ain't interested in YOUR opinions here, I'm the detective here, not YOU. Ya get me?" He said. Bert rolled his eyes, and went back to taking pictures of the body.
"Well, Gunt, what can ya tell me?" Bullock asked the coroner, who had been examining the body. The thin black man, in his GCPD coroner jacket, and gloves, slowly stood up and walked over to the detective. Mortimer Gunt, GCPD coroner going on 15 years now, age 33, and single. His strange fixation on his job, as well as his taxidermy hobbies, tend to fill up a lot of his time, so relationships don't tend to work out.
"Well, Harv, that gentleman was killed by the burns, not the initial bullet wounds. Those weren't near fatal enough to kill him, in the time the witness heard the shots, from the time he was discovered. Those tire tracks you saw earlier, when you arrived, could belong to anything big enough to supply that much chemical to burn through a man's face. So you're likely looking for a box van, or panel truck. With the traces, I found, I can't be certain until I run them through the lab, but I'm fairly certain it was a very concentrated; very specific, compounded form of molecular acid." Gunt stated to the detective.
"Christ. What about the body being positioned that way after death?" Bullock asked.
Gunt shrugged. "Could be anything, Harv. It's post-mortem, I can tell you that, but that's not even the odd thing."
"Whadda ya mean, Gunt?" Bullock asked, genuinely creeped out now.
"There's no signs of a struggle, this victim did not even put up a fight. Almost like he accepted his fate."
"The hell is wrong with this town?" Bullock muttered under his breath, as he shook his head. "Well, fuck, that means I gotta go talk to Old Man Falcone at that nightclub, give me the address, Bert. Cash you take over the scene, see everyone out, would ya?" Bullock turned away to walk back to his car, shaking his head. This town is fucked up.
Gotham City. For hundreds of years, the city has been a breeding ground for corruption. If the seven deadly sins of the Bible were to ever have an entire city in their honor, it would be Gotham City. It has a way of changing people, and not for the best. Money talks, and if you didn't have money, or worse; owed money, then you were a liability to those in control. Liabilities are dealt with only one way: execution. If you couldn't participate with the system established by those in power, you were cut off, and run down. Of course, there are worse fates than death. The Families would strip you of your reputation, your job, your money, and leave you to fight for your life on the filthy streets more often than not. Death is considered a favor, and not so much a punishment.
Carmine Falcone, the Don of the Falcone Crime Syndicate. There isn't a police officer, journalist, politician, lawyer, or judge that this man does not have in his pockets. The Falcone family are vicious types, yet they abide by a very strict code of honor among thieves. The police Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb stated in an interview that he paralleled the Falcone family to that of the Corleone family: Falcone's power and wisdom akin to Vito Corleone, his son Alberto's personality and appearance that of Fredo Corleone, and his daughter Sofia's temper matching that of Sonny Corleone. Lastly, his elder son Mario's deportation to Sicily, physical appearance and desire to legitimize the Falcone family are all traits shared with Michael Corleone.
Then, you have Salvatore Maroni, Boss of the Maroni Crime Syndicate. He's more direct in his methods to maintain his control over his own territory of Gotham. The Maroni family, like the Falcones, are extremely aggressive when it comes to using their power. Maroni is more of a hot head than Carmine, however, and is more prone to violent outbursts at the slightest hint of disobedience, or worse; disrespect. Maroni, and his family, control the West End (Diamond District), of Gotham, and Otisburg. While the Falcones control the East End, and Burnley.
Now, despite these two superpowers possessing the city, completely; there are those that challenge their authority, and even try to forcibly take their own cut of the town. The most recognized of these such businessmen, is Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. Known to his enemies, and feared by his own men as the Penguin, Cobblepot's ability to track down state of the art firearms, while keeping an ear out for the latest news in town, makes him a nearly invaluable asset to the controlling Families. Using his position as an arms deal, and a source of intel, Cobblepot has secured himself a nice little club labeled The Iceberg Lounge, located in the Diamond District, as well as a cut of some of the Maroni's profit.
Spawn enough greed in Gotham City, and someone is bound to rise up to snatch the opportunities for advancement, in order to create a name for themselves. To secure a little slice of the town, paid with blood on their hands. Tonight seemed to be one of those nights, as the fog canvased the city in a billowy nimbus of grey white. The streets were all soaked through the pavement, from the recent rain, only in this particular alley on the East End, known to the locals as Crime Alley. It achieved that name after the brutal mugging of one of Gotham's elite socialites, the Wayne family. Thomas, and Martha Wayne were gunned down by a desperate thief, named Joe Chill. After taking their money, and ripping off Martha's pearl necklace, he gunned them down in that alley as their only son watched in horror.
Lying in a puddle of soaked, crusty blood, the body of one of Gotham's denizens. Positioned neatly, as if he was just resting, hands folded over his chest, like someone about to be interred. The face was gone, burnt to a charred black skull, however the rest of the body was intact. A tall, chubby, unshaven, man of about forty stared down at the body. Wearing a light grey trench coat over a white shirt and red tie, with a matching grey fedora atop his head. A Gotham City Police Department badge was clipped to his hip for identification. Detective Harvey Bullock, looked to his left at the officer examining the body, while taking pictures of the evidence.
"Whadda we got here, Bert?" Bullock asked, almost as if he was bored of this investigation already. Lighting up a cigarette, he had just placed between his lips, he took a long drag before releasing a huge stream of smoke into the air around him.
"Deceased's name is Gerald Warner. I knew this guy for about 3 years now. He's a drug peddler, and presumably an enforcer for the Falcone family, though we never could get anything on him to prove it." Officer Bert responded.
"What makes you sure he was working with the Roman an' his kin? For all ya know, this clown was just a two-bit nobody who sold cheap, cut, drugs." Bullock retorted, clearly irritated that some officer was making assumptions.
"Like I said, I knew the guy, Bullock. He was also a bouncer in one of Falcone's nightclubs on weekends, from the looks of it, they paid him well. Seemed to me he was making more money than just drug money." Bert replied quickly, shaking his head at Bullock's own theory.
"So why go through all the trouble'a killin' the kid? Why gun 'im down, an' burn his face off?" Bullock asked to no one in particular.
"Probably to send a message, ya know like, 'don't fuck with us.'" Officer Aaron Cash said as he walked back over to Detective Bullock, after just taking a statement from the nearby witness.
"I don' get it, so what did yer boy have t'say back there?" Bullock asked Cash.
"Guy just heard a couple of loud shots, about an hour ago, at 11:24 P.M. He freaked, and ran off to call 911. He then made it back, about 30 minutes later to the smell of something burning, upon investigating the ally, he stumbled across the victim as we see him now. Shot, posed, and face melted off." Cash reported.
Bullock nods, and tilts his head to look at the body some more. "What gets me is the way the body is positioned, no way the kid fell like that. Makes no sense."
"Yeah, got me there. No idea." Bert chimed in. Bullock snapped a look at him, clearly irate now.
"Look, kid, I ain't interested in YOUR opinions here, I'm the detective here, not YOU. Ya get me?" He said. Bert rolled his eyes, and went back to taking pictures of the body.
"Well, Gunt, what can ya tell me?" Bullock asked the coroner, who had been examining the body. The thin black man, in his GCPD coroner jacket, and gloves, slowly stood up and walked over to the detective. Mortimer Gunt, GCPD coroner going on 15 years now, age 33, and single. His strange fixation on his job, as well as his taxidermy hobbies, tend to fill up a lot of his time, so relationships don't tend to work out.
"Well, Harv, that gentleman was killed by the burns, not the initial bullet wounds. Those weren't near fatal enough to kill him, in the time the witness heard the shots, from the time he was discovered. Those tire tracks you saw earlier, when you arrived, could belong to anything big enough to supply that much chemical to burn through a man's face. So you're likely looking for a box van, or panel truck. With the traces, I found, I can't be certain until I run them through the lab, but I'm fairly certain it was a very concentrated; very specific, compounded form of molecular acid." Gunt stated to the detective.
"Christ. What about the body being positioned that way after death?" Bullock asked.
Gunt shrugged. "Could be anything, Harv. It's post-mortem, I can tell you that, but that's not even the odd thing."
"Whadda ya mean, Gunt?" Bullock asked, genuinely creeped out now.
"There's no signs of a struggle, this victim did not even put up a fight. Almost like he accepted his fate."
"The hell is wrong with this town?" Bullock muttered under his breath, as he shook his head. "Well, fuck, that means I gotta go talk to Old Man Falcone at that nightclub, give me the address, Bert. Cash you take over the scene, see everyone out, would ya?" Bullock turned away to walk back to his car, shaking his head. This town is fucked up.
