Nighthawk

Prologue

21st July 1958, Lake Michigan, Chicago, 9:22 PM

The moon shone down onto the state, presenting itself in all of its beautiful glory. There were no stars in the clear, grey sky and the warm wind whipped lightly through the quiet city. The streets were almost deserted, many people being inside and the rest were at the bars and pubs, drowning their sorrows in drink. Many memories were best left forgotten. Just dust to the wind. Sometimes, not remembering a specific event could be a blessing. The bums picked through the trash cans, looking for any scraps of food or half empty bottles of booze. A tramp in a torn, dirty and ragged shirt rummaged through the rubbish, finding an old pack of cigarettes. He opened it, finding a single crumpled roll of tobacco and put it into his mouth. Finding a thrown away matchbox, he opened it and took a single match, struck it against the sandpaper. He lit the cigarette, smoked it with content and without a care in the world. A thin, sleazy man chatted to a woman in a bar, but it looked like she was having none of it. He went to make a move, but she suddenly slapped him across the face, throwing her drink into his eyes a second later. The bartender went around the bar and grabbed the blinded man by his shirt collar, dragging him outside. He kicked the door open, throwing him down onto the ground. He went back behind the bar, apologising to his patron, and proceeded to fix up another drink. A blood spattered fedora floated lazily in the lake, the light wind carrying it. The dead man floated next to it as his blood still seeped into the water, straining through his mortal wounds like a colander. The police blocked off the area as the suited detectives proceeded to investigate the scene. There were almost no civilians around, but it was still standard procedure. After all, they did not want to go around breaking any laws. Two men in overalls waded into the lake, up to the lifeless corpse. They grabbed it, dragging it out of the bloody patch and laid it down onto a gurney. The dead man had a death wish. He may have had a split second to aim, but he was clearly outmatched. After all, one man versus an entire squad of police would not stand a chance, no matter how good of a shot he was. Egotism would get someone killed. They had been hunting him for almost three days, pooling their resources and working tirelessly. After all of the stress, the endless hours and the pints and pints of black coffee, justice had finally been delivered. It was over. The endless madness had ceased. The dead man's suit and shirt were torn to tatters, his chest covered in blood and riddled with bullet holes. There was a bullet wound to the shoulder and two to the right arm. On the left arm, there were many bullet holes and the hand was black with gangrene, dried with blood. The knuckles were cut and scarred, drops of dried blood still on them. Splatters of blood decorated the ground and next to those, was a gleaming pistol, covered with drops of blood. Two detectives stepped up to the sodden corpse and looked down at it.

"So this is our mystery man." One of them said, putting his hands into his trouser pockets. He stared at the corpse, not seeming at all phased by the magnitude of mortal wounds.

"Yep. I still can't believe that it was him." The other replied.

"What would drive him to do something like this?"

The detective's partner shrugged. "Stress? Maybe he was forced? Maybe he snapped under pressure?"

The detective shook his head, frowning down at the corpse. "Hmm, no, I don't think so." He sighed. "What have we got to go on?"

"Almost nothing."

"The bottle?"

"Lost."

"The gangsters?"

"Dead."

"His office?"

"Burnt to the ground. There is nothing there."

The detective grunted in frustration. "31 people are dead and the mayor is in prison. God knows how many more unconfirmed casualties there are from all of this madness. It could be well into the hundreds. How did it get like this?"

"Paranoia, fear, greed, corruption. It's always the same. It's not like this city is a paradise. You want paradise? Go to Havana."

"You do understand that this wasn't just some simple case? This is a huge conspiracy that we are talking about here. This man was in the middle of all of it. This corpse wasn't just some minor hooligan, it was a criminal mastermind."

"But he's dead now, so we don't have to worry about him." He paused for a second before speaking again. "How do you propose we find the bottle?"

"The museum has no idea. The guards are all dead and the crooks all killed each other off. Everyone else that had come into contact with it is dead. The others that survived this madness have gone into hiding. There is no one that can help us. Like you said so yourself...It's lost."

"God help us."