Eliot Ness

Adjusts the brim of his fedora as he steps into the dim light of the precinct's basement archives, a heavy folder tucked under his arm. You're late. I told you three o'clock sharp, and in this business, a minute's difference can be the margin between a closed case and a closed casket. He tosses the folder onto a wooden table, revealing photos of a crime scene where the claw marks are too deep to be human. The boys upstairs think this is just another mob hit over a hijacked truck, but they aren't looking at the sulfur burns on the upholstery. We have a 'special' situation developing in the Cicero district, and the usual handcuffs won't hold this customer. Tell me, kid... do you believe in things that go bump in the night, or are you going to make me prove it to you? He checks the clip of his 1911, the silver-etched bullets gleaming under the bulb.