The lights were dim in the corner of Peterson Avenue, a dark street with a darker secret. New York's deadly alleyways have always been scenes of gruesome murders. But Peterson Avenue had housed the shadows of death quite literally.
The Old Man Dennelly, who decapitated his children after losing all money on the gambling bet that was enforced by mobster boss Hiram "Shark" Dersey.
A murder of two . . . with two bullets . . . two hitmen . . .
There's more.
Some say, that the shadow of the lamp light of Peterson Avenue casts a grim dark future for all that stands before it. And now, only the Sandman dare thread in these dark nights, where no one even does.
The trail is still fresh, he thought, steadily making his way through the shadows. Wesley followed the sounds of footsteps, as they began from its moderate pacing, to a quick run, a sign of panic, for the lamp light's shadow cast its glow upon the street corner and the alleyway. The Sandman followed, as the frantic screams were beginning to rise in momentum, and the footsteps began to fade away . . .
A scream.
"Damn it," Wesley muttered, as the dark alleyway spawned shadows of murder by the faint lamp light. The body spasmed, as the attacker dropped the blow on it, time after time. Then, it jerked, and went limp. The shadows disappeared, as the light faded away. Wesley reached the alley minutes later, and leaned onto the brick wall, trying to catch his breathe. A foot lay behind the crates that were stacked by the end. He took a deep gulp, and examined the crime scene. Blood was splattered across the red brick walls and the crates, and a knife was left, plunged on one of the wooden crates, leaving a red stain on it. "Evidence," he uttered, grabbing the leg to examine the victim's body.
There was no body attached.
"God . . . !" Wesley said, choking on his words, trying to keep himself from getting sick at the sight of the gory scene. Mutilated, the body parts were piled in neat packages. He then began to investigate the bloody fingerprints on one crate. He hesitated, but opened it, revealing other body parts stacked in a perfectly neat manner.
Someone out there is sick . . . , Wesley thought, trying to restrain himself. The Sandman has lost the game, and the winner has escaped into the night. Wesley just moaned, backing off, and made his way into the night.
Peterson Avenue. A dark street with a darker secret.
"Evidence point that this is the decapitated body of Jessica Owens, sir," the young cadet said, trying to keep himself from coughing. Inspector Samwell took the lifeless head on the pile in the crate, and examined it. Her eyes showed no emotion, except of fear that came with her death. And some scratches made from a knife. He can almost define it.
It looked like a spider.
Samwell dropped the decapitated head in the plastic bag, and continued to gather the other parts of her body. Detective Pascal stepped forward, and gave the field reports of past related crimes. "See here? This report here's just the same thing. Mary Ramsey, age twenty-one."
"Other victims?"
"All debutantes, sir. Same spot. " Pascal said, bringing his kerchief to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Samwell took the report in his hands.
"Well, these is certainly not our normal homicidal killer. Whoever he is, he's really selective." Samwell shoved the report back to Pascal, and made his way to the phone booth. He dialed the station's number, and waited for someone to pick it up.
"Hello? Alice? Yes, this is Ian. I need you to post a radio bulletin. Yes, immediately. Warning the elite society of New York, they're being numbered."
"Hello, Mr. Dodds," Fiona Meroe said cheerfully, as the slump Wesley Dodds made his way past his secretary.
"Yes, hello too, Fiona," he muttered, as he placed his hand on the brass doorknob of his office. Then he turned to her. "Any news lately?"
Fiona then stood from her chair. The office crowd suddenly became silent, wondering what was going on. "What are you people staring at?" she yelled, and the employees once again went on with their work. She went beside Wesley, and whispered to his ears. He nodded, and thanked her, as he entered his bright white office. Troy and Raymond stood there, as he sat on his chair rather tired, and tried to relax.
"I take it you heard it already," Troy said, passing a cup of coffee to Wesley. "The rich populace of New York are being murdered by a killer. Somewhat a Jack the Ripper, don't you think?"
How well I know, Wesley thought, taking a sip. Raymond slammed his hand on the table, startling his two colleagues. "A bad thing! My daughter Chelsey is really worried about the whole thing! Really, the police should find out who--"
"Okay," Wesley muttered grumpily, drinking full his mug. Troy motioned to the window, and watched the bright New York populace below rush to work, streets filled with citizens with a clear mind, unaware of what was happening.
"We will need to find ourselves protection. The upper crust of New York must fend for each other's sake. I propose we take some matters in our own hands."
"But how?" Wesley said, placing his empty mug on the table. Troy just stared through the window, as pigeons fluttered by. New York seems like a paradise in the day, Wesley thought, shutting his eyes to give them rest. Then he heard Troy and Raymond's voices, as he began to grow steadily calm.
"There is a way to capture the killer, everyone. Just yesterday, our group of wealthy entrepreneurs have decided to organize a masquerade ball. All of the wealthy and prominent in New York are invited, and there is a slightly heavy chance that our killer shall arise there."
"That's risky, Troy!"
"We'll have to take it. If the killer must be brought to justice."
The conversation ceased to exist in Wesley's mind, as he drifted off to a deep sleep.
"Sandman," the cloaked woman uttered, as Wesley appeared from his hiding place behind the water tower. The roof of the abandoned building was a perfect place to meet this certain person, for she melded in the dark.
"Phantysima," Sandman said, as her green eyes lit up behind the dark mask. She drew closer, and stared in his face. "What do you want from me?" she whispered, as her black leather costume came close to Wesley's suit. "I hear there is a lot of whispering going on in the upper crust society."
"I know."
"Well," she said, somersaulting back in a catlike grace, landing on her feet, five inches away from the Sandman. "I see how much you have grown."
Phantysima waved her hand slightly, and dark clouds began to emit from her surroundings, as she enveloped herself in the clouds. Wesley suddenly reached out for her, grabbing her back before she disappeared into the night. She nudged, and turned to him.
"What is it?"
"I need your help," Wesley muttered under his gas mask, holding onto Phantysima something fierce. She just smiled, and nodded.
Samwell lit a cigar and sat on his lazy chair. His apartment was still, as the only sounds that the forty year old detective could hear were the screech of cats by the moonlight, and his radio tuned to the mystery hour.
"She knew she was being watched. Out there, someone wanted her."
The voice of the narrator was pensive, and the tension crept upon Ian Samwell's back. He then thought to himself, and lowered his guard. It was only a radio show. He needed to relax, to take his mind off the burden of work.
"He was waiting, somewhere in the shadows."
Wind was chilly outside. He thought he had closed that window. Ignore it, he said. Relax.
"She began to walk. So did he. She knew she can't escape."
Samwell crushed his cigar by the ashtray, then closed his eyes. The peace was not as it seemed. Around him, fog began to roll around, creeping from the shadows. The dark figure then appeared from it, cloaked in purple, with a mask that hid his face well.
"Ian Samwell," the voice said, as the detective woke up from his chair, startled. He then reached for his gun, but it was nowhere in his sights. "I assume you have been looking for this?" the figure muttered, latching onto the caliber, as the stunned Samwell began to move back. "I am the figure who haunts your dreams, Ian Samwell. I am the Sandman," he said, gripping onto the gun. Samwell couldn't budge, as the figure began to move closer. "You see, I have plans, Samwell. Great plans. And I can't let anyone get close to knowing all about it."
"W-what do you want?" Samwell's voice managed to croak, as the Sandman loomed over him, like a shadow of death. The Sandman did not nudge, as he aimed the gun at the detective.
"I want you out of this case, Ian Samwell. I want the murder cases to be left unsolved."
"Y-y-ou?"
The figure stared intently, and grabbed Samwell by the collar, and threw him across the room. Samwell, semi-conscious, moaned as the Sandman picked him up again.
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
The masked vigilante's laughter faded, as the mist dispersed, with the wounded Ian Samwell on the floor of his apartment, bleeding. He then came back to realization, as if he woke up from a trance, and picked up the phone.
Wesley Dodds crouched behind the garbage cans, as the car's flashing lights began to fade away. To his side was an abandoned building, though he knew it was more than. He rammed his fists through the barred windows, and crept inside. The place was pitch-black, but he could sense the eyes staring at him. "Rim Kennedy, the information broker of the underworld," Sandman uttered quietly, as he lit his lighter to illuminate the room. The old man sat in the corner, his face grim. "Will you turn off that light already? It's sore to my eyes."
"I won't."
"Well, that's a good way to ask for information." The old man could barely move his cane, tapping on the floor. Suddenly, shadows began to caress the light, as Wesley found himself outnumbered by henchmen. Instantly, Wesley drew back, sweeping one of them of his feet. In response, the other three began their assault.
Calm down, Wes. Remember what Phantysima told you, he thought, as his leg flew up to a henchman's face, sending him flying across the room. Then, one of them suddenly grabbed him, and the other began hitting him in the stomach with his fists. Then, a swerve, and he went flying in an instant. Wesley landed on the edge of the room, battered and defeated.
Rim was satisfied, calling his men to disperse, leaving him alone in the room with the defeated Sandman. "I suppose you aren't ready for a rematch, boy?"
"Ugh . . . "
"The taste of blood too vulgar for you? Here, have a kerchief." Rim took his out and placed by the side of Wesley. Then he thanked the old man, wiping the blood off his lips. Rim sat back, as the young vigilante stood up. "Okay, so you're here. What is it you need?"
"About the killings of the debutantes," Wesley said seriously, as the old man chuckled silently.
"Well, there's a topic I'd like to discuss. Anyways, you be ready for all this now, you hear?" Rim Kennedy paused for a minute, coughing, then began his story.
"You see, the killer has been targeting selected debutantes. If you didn't notice it all already, most of them are the ones who'll be heading the Summer Parade this coming."
" . . . of course . . . "
"So, you know he'll be probably after the last five out of the ten. I can give you the list if you want it."
"Go on."
The old man coughed again, this time trying to clear his throat. Then he talked. Names flew across the room, one of which struck Wesley.
"Marriane Leuchante's probably his next target," Rim muttered, tapping his cane to the ground. Wesley took a step back, trying to get a hold of himself. "After all, the killer has been killing the debutantes in the reverse order of their line-up during the parade. The other two were the last. So it figures."
Rim looked up to Wesley, who was silently whispering prayers. "What's the matter, boy?"
"Nothing. Thank you, Rim. You've been a great help on this case."
"Well, you did hold back on my boys, so I'll let you get off with this scot free."
The Sandman stared at the old timer. He was clutching his fists, still aware that Marriane was in imminent danger.
"What?" Rim asked, before the vigilante disappeared, leaving the old man to his solitude in the darkness of that building.
"Wake up, Wesley! I've got to get to school!" Sanderson Hawkins shook his "older brother" awake from dozing off in the middle of breakfast.
"W-wwhat?"
"Wesley! I need to get to school!"
"Okay . . . fine . . . why did I get saddled up with you?" Wesley took the car keys, as Sanderson readied himself with by his side. "It's because of my Cousin Di! She's moving here, after all!"
Wesley then recalled it well. Sanderson Hawkins was the cousin of Dian Belmont, a young childhood friend of Wesley's who decided to return to New York to visit her parents, after traveling across America. Sanderson, whose parents died in a plane crash, was entrusted under the care of Wesley, as the Dian's parents did not exactly welcome another child in their house.
"Dian'll be arriving tomorrow, right?" He said, as they drove off to the city.
Ian Samwell summoned the elite of the police squad to the Goldman Mansion, right on the hill near Peterson Avenue. The night breeze brought a chill down all their spines, as the estate's empty atmosphere loomed over them, like an undying presence.
Detective Pascal brought his closed fist on the mahogany door, and the sound of his fists begging for entrance echoed from within. "Looks like no one's home, Inspector."
"Well, that's too bad," Samwell grumbled, lighting a tobacco. "I guess we'll have to--"
A footstep.
"Wait . . . " the tobacco fell to the ground, as the footsteps began to draw near. Suddenly, the doors swung open, as a distinguished middle-aged man turned to face them. "Yes?" he asked, in a carefree, yet cold tone.
"Are you Roger Goldman?"
"That could be me." The man stared at them coldly, as if warning them to back off.
Ian Samwell took his notepad from the left pocket of Detective Pascal, and then turned back to Goldman. "Well, Mister Goldman, I'm inspector Samwell from the 13th precinct, and me and my boys would like to ask some questions from you and your family personally."
The man paused for a minute, eyeing Samwell, then smiled a wry smile. "It would be a pleasure to work with the police in any way, inspector. Do make yourselves at home."
"I'd rather not . . . " Ian muttered under his breath, as he ordered his squad to guard the perimeters while he and Pascal entered the mansion's doors.
Next issue: The Second Act unfolds as the murder spree of the upper crust continues, as Wesley gathers more clues about the Peterson Avenue killer. But will he unravel the puzzle right before the masquerade ball? And what dark secrets intertwine the Sandman, Wesley, and all those he cares for into this web of deception?