Malphegor
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PIG Ch. 26
🕑 Added 2025-12-03 02:32:25 +0000 UTCMarco floored the gas pedal and sped back to the precinct.
As expected, the building was still brightly lit. When he stepped into the lobby, he found that none of the veteran detectives had managed to escape, every one of them sat slumped in their chairs, pretending to study the files in front of them. Even the back-office staff were carrying stacks of documents, constantly moving in and out. And in the center of the room stood Bob himself, holding a photo as he spoke confidently to a female reporter and a cameraman carrying heavy equipment.
"I've always emphasized that crimes against children must never be tolerated or excused. We must strengthen our focus on remote and impoverished areas. This time is precisely such a case..."
So these people really know how to spout self-congratulatory clichés on camera.
Marco suddenly felt that his own speech earlier seemed much less impressive. He was about to sneak along the wall, but Bob had already spotted him.
"Our officer involved in the case is back. He's the one who discovered those two poor children who were nearly starved to death during a follow-up visit."
Immediately, the entire room's gaze hit Marco like searchlights. Most of those looks were filled with deep resentment toward overtime that would make even demons back away. The rest contained curiosity, respect, or professional scrutiny.
"You're Officer Marco Vitale, the one mentioned by Chief McGinnis? I'm Vicki Vale, special correspondent for the Gotham Gazette and Gotham TV. Please tell us, where are the two children now? What's their condition? How did you find them?"
"Their condition is very poor. I've already sent them to a clinic. Because this involves minors' privacy, we can't disclose too many details for now."
He was eager to touch base with Bob to coordinate their statements, but Vale wasn't planning to let it go so easily.
"Given that the children's condition deteriorated so severely before you noticed anything, can this be taken as evidence of serious neglect in your day-to-day duties?"
All right, you asked for this.
Marco cleared his throat. "That's not the case. We strictly implement the chief's requirement of 'Two Insistences and Two Focuses.' We insist on on-site visits, insist on long-term observation, focus on community conditions, and focus on resource allocation. We also take the following measures..."
He went on and on for more than fifteen minutes. Even the cameraman's equipment began to tilt from fatigue. When Marco finally reached "Item Nineteen: Strengthen professional guidance and reinforce subsequent team development," even Vale couldn't take it anymore and quickly cut him off.
"Okay, hold on, Officer. I think... we should first go to the clinic to check on the two children. We'll interview you again later. Goodbye!" She grabbed the cameraman and fled, sprinting out the door and into the news van, disappearing into the night.
"All right, everyone who can go home, go home." Bob waved his hand. The room instantly erupted into a mass exodus, people rising and grumbling as they headed out. He called Marco into the office, shut the door, and asked, "What did you do? You take two rookies out in the afternoon and somehow turn it into breaking news?"
"I was worried those kids might actually starve to death at home, that's all. But then I had an idea." Marco stared at the ceiling, replaying his plan. "Of the hottest issues attracting public attention right now, high-level sex scandals, international tensions, AIDS, racial conflict, none of those are things we can get involved with. But crimes against children always get attention, and morally speaking, they're always on the 'right' side."
He looked at Bob uncertainly. "If we can take over, at least partially take over, the follow-up work, the boost to your and the department's reputation would be immeasurable."
"You're not wrong, but it's not that easy." Bob thought for a moment, then shook his head. "CPS won't give up that piece of meat. You're prying at their foundation."
"That's why I want to try starting with these two kids. I took them directly from their home to Dr. Thompkins' clinic. She'll issue documentation."
"Occasionally, something like this might work. But long-term? Impossible."
Bob stood up, walked to the door, checked the lock again. Then he looked out the window and pulled the curtains shut.
"You may have been born in Gotham, but you're still young. People my age all know an old nursery rhyme passed down for generations in this city."
"Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time,
Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime.
They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed,
Speak not a whispered word of them, or they'll send the Talon for your head."
As he recited the last lines, his voice grew lower and lower. His body even trembled slightly.
"So..." Marco asked, puzzled. "CPS is backed by this... Court of Owls? Do we have any evidence?"
"No. Just speculation. But what if it's true?" Bob's expression returned to normal. "Maybe I'm overreacting. My grandfather used to scare me with that rhyme when I was a kid."
He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. "There have been many unsolved mysteries in this city. People love connecting events with no answers to strange old legends. There's no evidence, but my stance is: better to believe it might be true than risk assuming it isn't."
Huh?
Before he'd transmigrated into this world, Marco had read a bit about the Court of Owls. He only remembered a bunch of mysterious people wearing owl masks who raised assassins called Talons, and maybe worshiped some cosmic darkness deity.
But teaming up with CPS to traffic children? Wasn't that way too low-class for them?
He shook his head. "Impossible."
Before Bob could respond, he grabbed a blank sheet of paper off the desk and began calculating.
"The placement subsidy for each abused child ranges from forty-five hundred to six thousand dollars. Let's take the maximum, six thousand. A child, if sold as an extremely rare virgin prostitute, might fetch three thousand. If sold as a slave, maybe only three hundred. Average price is roughly five hundred each."
He scribbled numbers as he talked.
"Over the past five years, CPS has lost around twelve hundred children. Even if every single one was sold and all subsidies pocketed, without counting any expenses, total profit is seven point eight million, averaging one point five-six million a year."
He twirled the pen rapidly between his fingers. "A good real estate agent in Gotham often makes over a million a year. The top ones can make several million or even tens of millions. If what you're saying is true, Gotham's oldest and most terrifying secret organization wouldn't even earn as much as a decent real estate broker."
He dropped the pen and spread his hands. "Chief, that villa of yours in Diamond District might as well have been bought for you by the Court of Owls, after they charged you a broker fee."
"Jesus Christ!" Bob sucked in a breath. "You calculated all that instantly? Where did you learn to do math like that?"
Marco shrugged. "My dad used to run numbers for the docks. He made me memorize multiplication tables before I could read."
"Italians… always with the numbers, " Bob muttered, shaking his head. "So you're saying CPS and the Court of Owls have nothing to do with each other?"
"Of course not. In reality, CPS's biggest backers are probably just a few corrupt officials. If you don't want to go at them head-on, they'll take bribes, and so can we."
"We can bribe them? You're not planning to sell the kids too, are you? Or..." His expression suddenly changed. "You want me to pay again?"
"Calm down." Marco flipped the sheet over and wrote a big number 1 on it.
"Step one: we gather evidence and expose the corruption inside CPS. Get the public to understand and support the police taking over. Step two: our existing fund for families of injured or fallen officers stays the same. After the payout, we launch a donation drive among officers specifically for these two kids. It's only two children for now, the amount needed isn't much."
He wrote a 3 on the paper.
"Step three: we contact newspapers and radio, invite them to monitor the entire process and how the funds are used. You know the media and reporters love this kind of thing. Next, we use the momentum to announce an expansion, taking in more abused children. Of course, we can't take all of them, only the most severe cases, the homeless ones. Keep the scale at around a dozen or twenty."
"Once we reach that step, some foundations and philanthropists will donate to us. We then publicly thank those donors in the papers. People may not remember who did give money, but they'll remember very clearly who didn't. Those people will scramble to support you in order to get in on the funding pool. And once they've all donated, they'll try to reach in and control the flow of funds for profit. At that point..."
He chuckled. "Let them talk to the media about it."
Bob said nothing. He smoked an entire cigarette before he finally nodded.
"If it's just CPS, then there's nothing to be afraid of. We simply have to keep our eyes on them and get solid evidence so we can handle this out in the open." He opened a drawer, pulled out an official letter, scribbled several lines, and stamped it.
"Tomorrow head to the parking garage and meet the two mechanics from the equipment division. They're the ones who modified your car. Bring a good bottle of liquor and five hundred in cash. Then go get your friend out. Time for him to contribute."
---
By the time he reached the parking garage, dark clouds were gathering on the horizon. He bought two sandwiches and returned to the precinct. After all, going home meant being alone. He might as well spend the night in the break room here instead of running back and forth.
Passing through the lobby, he snatched a morning newspaper off someone's desk, planning to kill some time. But when he finished dinner and was preparing to rest with some free coffee, he suddenly noticed that the front page was no longer about Falcone, it featured a different familiar name.
"BRUCE WAYNE, PRESIDENT OF WAYNE ENTERPRISES, RETURNS AFTER YEARS MISSING! FIRST PUBLIC APPEARANCE WILL BE AT CITY HALL'S CHARITY WELCOMING BANQUET!"
He jolted upright.
He remembered: before Batman appeared, Gotham's worst crime was organized crime. After Batman appeared, every kind of freak and monster crawled out from under the floorboards, sealed-away evils, long-dead nightmares, all sprouting up like weeds.
Sigh.
He let out a long, miserable exhale. Just as he was lamenting the cruelty of life, his phone rang sharply. He glanced at the number, it was Clark.
Huh?
"Hey, Clark," he asked cautiously. "Did something happen?"
"Hey, Marco. Uh... it's good news." Clark's gentle voice came through the receiver. "Today Waylon signed a temporary contract with the team for the remainder of the season. If he plays every game, he'll earn a hundred and eighty thousand. And if he performs well, he has a real shot at getting a full five-year contract worth over ten million dollars in next year's draft."
"HOW MUCH?!"
Marco practically jumped three feet high. The number was so shocking that he completely ignored the earlier hundred and eighty thousand.
He risked his life for ten thousand dollars.
Bob schemed for years to skim a few hundred thousand.
And the poor kid he personally sent off could casually pull in...
Over TEN MILLION!!!
He clutched the phone hard and screamed the number several times in anguish.
"...Mr. Daines also thinks he'll be a superstar. Hello? Hello? Marco? What's wrong? Did something happen?"
"No, nothing! It's just... raining over here." Marco slumped against the window like someone whose soul had been extracted. He stared blankly at a pale streak of lightning tearing across the sky and answered weakly, "Okay... thanks, Clark. Sorry for the trouble."
"Oh, it's no problem. Waylon also wanted to ask if he could call you. You told him not to contact you, right?"
"Tell him to train hard. I'll visit Metropolis when I have time. I'm hanging up, I need some time alone with my feelings!"
"Okay. If you need anything, call me. Bye."
Clark's farewell was drowned out by a loud crack of thunder. Marco stared numbly out the window, his thoughts roiling like the dark storm clouds above.
Was that thunder?
No... that was the sound of his heart shattering.
