“SHOTGUN GANG” HITS GOTHAM WEST BANK-MILLIONS STOLEN
Gotham has once again been hit by a new wave of highly-motivated and professional criminals, in the form of the six men known as the “Shotgun Gang”, who started plying their deadly trade three months ago. Great Western American Bank, Central Gotham Savings, Britannia Holdings... no safe is safe, it would seem. The six men appear well-trained and carry automatic shotguns. They storm in, blow the vault, take everything they can, then disappear into the city again to plan their next robbery. They've shown themselves to be ruthless, too. In one instance they fired on a security guard, who narrowly avoided death, and in another they broke a cashier's nose after she wasn't fast enough in handing over the money. One thing is sure-they won't stop until they are caught
The sky was leaden grey, overcast and threatening rain. It seemed as if the heavy, dark clouds were pressing down on the city.
Detective Arthur Kingsley pulled the unmarked sedan up to the kerb outside Julio's. The small, cramped, and dingy diner was in one of the most deprived and violent parts of town, and Kingsley could remember being called to the diner many times as a beat cop. This was the first time as a homicide detective, though. Hopefully he would have more success than the suits did when he was on the beat, he thought as he put on his jacket and fedora.
“You know Art, I musta been called to this dump a hundred times when I was on the beat.” Kingsley's partner, Felix Taylor, must have been reading his thoughts.
“I know. This town's like a damn merry-go-round. Always the same crime scenes, over and over.” Kingsley nodded to the policeman who lifted the yellow tape to let the two detectives through.
The murder victim was sprawled on his back in a pool of blood beside the bar, several red-rimmed holes torn in his chest. A pistol was clutched in his outstretched hand.
Kingsley gazed at the scene for a moment. “Looks professional.” He said. Taylor nodded. “Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Tight shots, evenly spaced. They knew what they were doing.”
Kingsley knelt. The man was in his mid-40s, and was well-built with a thin moustache. Kingsley snapped on a pair of disposable gloves on and checked his jacket pockets. A wallet, stained with blood. “Our vic is one Anthony Maddox.” He said after reading the ID within. He handed the wallet to Taylor and checked the other pockets. A spare clip for the handgun in the corpse's hand, and...
Kingsley's face went white. He pulled something from the pocket and stood. Taylor frowned when he saw his partner's face. “What?” He asked, puzzled. “You look like someone has just walked over your grave.” Kingsley just held out his hand. He held a silver police badge that was covered in blood, red smears covering the GCPD crest. “He was a cop.” the detective said, his voice like ice. “He was a fucking cop.”
“Anthony George Maddox. Narcotics Bureau officer. Aged 44, lives in a building on the China Docks.” Edward Nygma, the tall angular forensics man, opened his mouth to speak again.
“If it's a riddle, Ed, you can just keep it.” Kingsley cut him off. Nygma closed his mouth again. Taylor appeared from behind the bar. “Got casings here.” He said. “Looks small calibre.”
“It's from Detective Maddox's gun.” Nygma replied, looking down at the dead cop. “He went down fighting.”
“Any indication of who the assailants were?” Kingsley asked.
“Maddox wounded one of his attackers, we think.” Nygma crossed the diner, pointing to a spot on the wall that was cratered by a bullet hole and smudged with red.
Kingsley looked at the victim and back again at the wall. “Trajectories seem to fit.” He remarked. “I can see how it happened.”
“Once we get Maddox back to the lab, we'll run the blood on the wall, see if we can get a match.” Nygma said, looking at his clipboard.
A uniformed officer came to the door. “We've finished interviewing the witnesses.” He announced. Taylor's eyebrows rose. “That was damn quick.” He said. Kingsley snorted. “Guess they saw nothing.” The beat cop clapped a hand to his mouth in mock surprise. “How did you know?” He said sarcastically. The three cops laughed; Nygma didn't seem to find it funny.
Gotham has once again been hit by a new wave of highly-motivated and professional criminals, in the form of the six men known as the “Shotgun Gang”, who started plying their deadly trade three months ago. Great Western American Bank, Central Gotham Savings, Britannia Holdings... no safe is safe, it would seem. The six men appear well-trained and carry automatic shotguns. They storm in, blow the vault, take everything they can, then disappear into the city again to plan their next robbery. They've shown themselves to be ruthless, too. In one instance they fired on a security guard, who narrowly avoided death, and in another they broke a cashier's nose after she wasn't fast enough in handing over the money. One thing is sure-they won't stop until they are caught
The sky was leaden grey, overcast and threatening rain. It seemed as if the heavy, dark clouds were pressing down on the city.
Detective Arthur Kingsley pulled the unmarked sedan up to the kerb outside Julio's. The small, cramped, and dingy diner was in one of the most deprived and violent parts of town, and Kingsley could remember being called to the diner many times as a beat cop. This was the first time as a homicide detective, though. Hopefully he would have more success than the suits did when he was on the beat, he thought as he put on his jacket and fedora.
“You know Art, I musta been called to this dump a hundred times when I was on the beat.” Kingsley's partner, Felix Taylor, must have been reading his thoughts.
“I know. This town's like a damn merry-go-round. Always the same crime scenes, over and over.” Kingsley nodded to the policeman who lifted the yellow tape to let the two detectives through.
The murder victim was sprawled on his back in a pool of blood beside the bar, several red-rimmed holes torn in his chest. A pistol was clutched in his outstretched hand.
Kingsley gazed at the scene for a moment. “Looks professional.” He said. Taylor nodded. “Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Tight shots, evenly spaced. They knew what they were doing.”
Kingsley knelt. The man was in his mid-40s, and was well-built with a thin moustache. Kingsley snapped on a pair of disposable gloves on and checked his jacket pockets. A wallet, stained with blood. “Our vic is one Anthony Maddox.” He said after reading the ID within. He handed the wallet to Taylor and checked the other pockets. A spare clip for the handgun in the corpse's hand, and...
Kingsley's face went white. He pulled something from the pocket and stood. Taylor frowned when he saw his partner's face. “What?” He asked, puzzled. “You look like someone has just walked over your grave.” Kingsley just held out his hand. He held a silver police badge that was covered in blood, red smears covering the GCPD crest. “He was a cop.” the detective said, his voice like ice. “He was a fucking cop.”
“Anthony George Maddox. Narcotics Bureau officer. Aged 44, lives in a building on the China Docks.” Edward Nygma, the tall angular forensics man, opened his mouth to speak again.
“If it's a riddle, Ed, you can just keep it.” Kingsley cut him off. Nygma closed his mouth again. Taylor appeared from behind the bar. “Got casings here.” He said. “Looks small calibre.”
“It's from Detective Maddox's gun.” Nygma replied, looking down at the dead cop. “He went down fighting.”
“Any indication of who the assailants were?” Kingsley asked.
“Maddox wounded one of his attackers, we think.” Nygma crossed the diner, pointing to a spot on the wall that was cratered by a bullet hole and smudged with red.
Kingsley looked at the victim and back again at the wall. “Trajectories seem to fit.” He remarked. “I can see how it happened.”
“Once we get Maddox back to the lab, we'll run the blood on the wall, see if we can get a match.” Nygma said, looking at his clipboard.
A uniformed officer came to the door. “We've finished interviewing the witnesses.” He announced. Taylor's eyebrows rose. “That was damn quick.” He said. Kingsley snorted. “Guess they saw nothing.” The beat cop clapped a hand to his mouth in mock surprise. “How did you know?” He said sarcastically. The three cops laughed; Nygma didn't seem to find it funny.