April 12th, 1937 Chicago— a world without LaCroix.

The rain whipped around in the wind hiding the tears in the crowd.

‘Appropriate to a funeral’, Crowley thought.  He looked to the proud skyline of the city and it reassured him that his friend had saved it. The uncorrupted police would be left to deal with his murderer, Andronico the Greek, but overall the city was safe.

Crowley looked at thousands of people who had come this day to mourn for the Great Crusader. He fell fighting crime in the dark of the night as he would have wanted. Something was missing, but Crowley couldn’t put his finger on it.  Something left undone, something left in the wind.