It was a scene that you would never have expected to see.
There, in the office of Jeremiah Arkham, caretaker of Arkham Asylum, sat Arkham, Commissioner Gordon, Sarah Essen-Gordon, Oswald Cobblepot, and Groverton, Cobblepot's secretary, accountant, and all-around personal assistant.
"Given the revenues from Avian Paradise, plus the added money he's been taking in since buying the Crowne Major Hotel, Mr. Cobblepot is prepared to offer you up to one million dollars for this place, Mr. Arkham."
Jeremiah sat behind his desk, fingers steepled. He looked to Gordon. "By your very presence here, Commissioner, I'd guess you're opposed to my selling to Mr. Cobblepot."
Gordon nodded once firmly, pushing his glasses up from the tip of his nose. "Absolutely. Jeremiah, I know this place isn't exactly what you had in mind when your father talked about an inheritance, but selling out to . . . oh hell, what am I afraid of?" The commissioner leaned forward in his chair and looked directly as Cobblepot, who sat on the other side of Essen-Gordon. "You can't sell out to this man. He has a prison record, possible criminal connections . . . he should be in this place, not running it!"
Arkham shook his head. "Actually, I don't believe that Mr. Cobblepot intends to take over the responsibility of--"
Oswald Cobblepot held up his hand. "I hate to interupt, Jeremiah, but I would be assuming your job as caretaker if you should sell me the asylum. Of course, I would maintain my current residence in the penthouse above my casino."
Jeremiah Arkham raised his head. "Ah," he said shortly. He looked to Sarah Essen-Gordon. "Ms. Essen, am I to assume that the mayor's office shares the opinion of your . . . of the commissioner?"
Sarah shifted and resettled into her chair. "Yes, Mr. Arkham. While Mayor Grange has voiced her concern. Her's--as does mine--centers on Mr. Cobblepot's criminal record. I have to tell you, as a former cop, it does remind me of the old saying about the lunatics running the asylum."
Cobblepot smiled, shaking his head slowly. "For the record, my dear lady, when I did pay my debt to society, it was in a state prison, not an asylum. There has never been any question about my mental state."
"Not legally, anyway," fired back Commissioner Gordon.
"Gentlemen, lady, I believe we're getting off track here," offered Groverton. "Mr. Cobblepot is prepared to pay you the full amount of one million dollars tonight, Mr. Arkham. We've already spoken extensively over the phone, and we would be completely contented to close this deal now."
Jeremiah Arkham took a deep breath. "Commissioner, I understand your concern. Afterall, Mr. Cobblepot has had run-ins with you, the police department, the Batman in the past. But, since his release from prison several years ago, he has been nothing less than a model citizen. Add to that the fact that, in my albeit short tenure as head of this place, he is the only person even to offer to take it off my hands . . ." Arkham shook his head. "This was my great-grandfather's house, the Arkham family mansion. He converted it into an asylum, and eventually had to be committed to it himself. During the breakout last year, I almost suffered the same kind of collapse. I don't want that to happen." Arkham tapped his desk nervously. "This place is too much stress; it's too much responsibility." He looked at Commissioner Gordon, then at Sarah Essen-Gordon. "My apologies to you both, and to Mayor Grange; but, this is my decision." Arkham stood, as did everyone else. He held his hand out to Oswald Cobblepot. "I'm selling."
Oswald shook his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Arkham. I'm sure this will be for the best." Cobblepot grinned as only he could. "For us all."
Mercy Hospital, 12:33 p.m.
Dick Grayson stopped outside Room 13 on the fourth floor. He hadn't been back here since he'd first been to see Heidi Barrell two days before, and was a little hesitant to come back. Afterall, he barely knew this woman. Plus, her husband had died only a few days ago, and Dick didn't want to seem like he was . . . well . . .
Dick took a breath, put one hand on the doorknob, and knocked twice. "Come in!" he heard Heidi's voice call from inside. Dick put on a smile and opened the door. He stepped inside, and saw Heidi, fully dressed, pulling on a light denim jacket. Behind her was a shorter, gray-haired woman who looked to be in her mid-to-late fifties. She smiled kindly at Dick. "Um . . . hi," he said, waving timidly. Dick looked at the older woman, then behind him at the open door. Finally, he returned his gaze to Heidi. "I . . . I just dropped by to see how you're doing."
Heidi smiled, shrugging the jacket over her shoulders. "Thanks. The doctors said that I'm fine." Heidi put her hand on her round stomach. "Both of us. They're letting me go home."
Dick smiled and nodded. Heidi glanced at the woman behind her, and back at Dick. Heidi pointed over her shoulder at the woman. "Um, Dick . . . this is Felicity. My mom. She came to pick me up."
Dick walked up to Felicity Barrell, his hand outstretched. "Hi. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barrell. I'm Dick Grayson."
Felicity Barrell took his hand with both of hers. "Hello," she said warmly. "I want to thank you for what you did for my daughter. . . . And, for my future grandson or daughter."
Dick smiled and brought his hand back to his side. "Ah, it was nothing." He glanced quickly at Heidi, then back at her mother. "I was . . . only too happy to do it. I didn't really have much of a choice in the whole thing."
Mrs. Barrell smiled gratefully and shook her head. "Oh, none of that matters . . . Dick. All I know is that I still have my little girl because of you. I can never repay you for that."
Dick laughed to himself and shook his head profusely. "Don't even bother. You owe me nothing."
Felicity Barrell stopped herself from saying anything more; it was obvious that Dick wasn't after gratitude. She put her arm around Heidi's shoulders and started the girl for the door. Dick stepped aside. "Good luck, Heidi." In the hallway, an orderly was waiting with a wheelchair. Heidi took her mother's hand and sat down slowly. Dick put his hand on the orderly's shoulder and leaned down next to Heidi's ear. "Hey, listen. I'm in the phone book. I want you to be keeping me posted on your soon-to-be little one, okay?"
Heidi smiled and nodded. "Will do."
"See, I sort of have a . . . vested interest in his progress."
"Or her progress."
"Right, sorry. You know, if you need anything . . ."
"I think Mom and Dad will be able to take care of me until I can settle back down. But, thanks for the offer, Dick."
Dick took his hand off of the orderly, stood up straight. He closed his eyes for a moment, then leaned back down and kissed Heidi lightly on the cheek. Dick stood up straight, looked at the orderly and gestured towards the hallway. "Roll away." The orderly pushed Heidi down the hall into an elevator, with Felicity Barrell walking behind her daughter the whole way.
Dick waited until a few minutes after they'd gone, then walked towards the elevator himself.
Blackgate Prison, 1:43 p.m.
In retrospect, Peter Devorak had known it was a bad idea the moment it popped into his head.
At first, when Peter escaped, finding someone else to help him out against Robin seemed like an inspired notion. Afterall, Peter himself could lure Robin into the fight, and then his double could take care of the fisticuffs. The luring aspect of the plan went off fine, but not only did Robin defeat the double, but the pseudo-Raven was captured by police. Within hours, Peter Devorak's location was given up to the police. Before another day had gone by, he was back at Blackgate, sitting in his cell on death row to wait for execution.
In the year since his initial incarceration, Peter had been visited by only one person: Robin himself, Tim Drake. The meeting had resulted in a mad outburst by Peter that had earned him three months of solitary confinement.
Today, however, said the guards as they led him from his claustrophobic concrete cell, there was another visitor. Peter prodded them for information, but they ignored him, probably just because they knew he hated it when people ignored him and wanted to spite another few months in solitary out of the young prisoner.
The guards led Peter into an interview room. At the center table sat a sandy-haired man in a three-piece suit, an open briefcase in front of him on the table. He was a man whom Peter Devorak had never seen before.
One of the guards pushed Peter down into a chair across from the stranger, then left the two of them alone in the interview room. The man removed several papers from the briefcase and laid them down halfway between he and Peter.
"I am Ronald Greenwauld, Peter. I'm your new lawyer."
Peter regarded the man with suspicion. "What do I need a lawyer for?" He looked all around him, then back at the lawyer. "I'm already found guilty, sitting on death row. Doesn't seem to me that too much else can be done."
Ronald Greenwauld nodded, then gently pushed the small stack of papers towards Peter. "I want you to read that."
Peter looked at it indifferently. "What is it?"
Greenwauld drew in a breath, closed his briefcase and pushed it aside. "That is a motion I filed this morning. It's an appeal to your sentence that basically states that you're not mentally fit enough to face execution. I'm moving to have you transferred to Arkham Asylum for psychiatric treatment."
Peter picked up the papers, glanced at the first one for a few seconds, then droppped them back to the table and snickered. "You think I'm insane? Is that it?"
"It's your best chance to live. If you spend a few years at Arkham, they find you to be mentally fit after treatment, you could reenter society . . . become a productive citizen."
"Is that what everybody means when they talk about best-case situations? I mean, I could spend the rest of my life in Arkham. What about the Joker?"
"You're not the Joker, Peter. The Joker is a cold-blooded, remorseless killer."
"So am I."
Ronald Greenwauld sighed, tapping the table with his fingertip. "That's not the issue, Peter. We know that you killed your parents. I'm going to prove that you didn't realize what you were doing."
"I'm not going to let you turn me into a maniac."
Ronald Greenwauld stood, packed up everything into his briefcase. "Number one, I'm not going to make you into a lunatic. Number two, this insanity appeal is your only chance at getting out of here alive and having a shot at a normal life. Think about that before you start smarting off at me again." Greenwauld walked over to the door and knocked three times.
"Wait," Peter said, turning around and looking up at Greenwauld. "Who hired you, anyway? I don't have a lawyer."
The guard outside unlocked and pulled the door open. Greenwauld stepped one foot outside. "Someone who cares about what happens to you," he began. "And, you do now."
The lawyer left. Peter Devorak watched him go, and as the guards were leading him back to his cell, he quickly banished any thoughts he was beginning to have of ever leaving this place again.
Red Racer Bus #2534, Northbound on Interstate 55, near Winona, Mississippi, 2:23 p.m.
Jean-Paul still had more than enough money to take a plane back to Gotham, but in light of his failure (the most recent of what could be labelled a streak of failures), he had opted to take a more "scenic" route back to his home.
Killer Croc was out of the swamp--by his own choice--and if he wasn't in Gotham by now, he would be very soon. Jean-Paul didn't even want to imagine the damage the Croc could, and most likely would cause in the coming weeks and months. With the kind of backing that he now had from the Penguin, Croc could prove to be a more formidable threat to the safety of the Dark City than ever before.
Jean-Paul shook these distracting thoughts from his mind and stared calmly out his window. The trees and bushes and lined the sides of the highway slid by, and it looked as if the bus were standing still and the entire world was moving along like a conveyor belt underneath it.
After nearly two hours on Interstate 55, the bus turned off onto an exit that led to the town of Winona. The town was large enough to escape the stereotype of the small, closenit midwestern village, but just small enough to fall short of the city catergory. It was an orderly, dignified town, its streets paved smooth and free of potholes, its buildings lined up along the sidewalks, each one a distinct and unique dwelling.
Blinking his eyes several times, Jean-Paul checked his watch and realized that he'd been staring at the passing buildings of Winona for over five minutes. The bus turned right and then right again, into the parking lot of the Winona Red Racer depot. The driver brought the vehicle to a stop, then turned on the public address system. "Attention gentlemen and ladies, we will be taking a thirty minute rest stop here. Those going on to Columbus, please be back here at no later than three o'clock for departure."
Jean-Paul unzipped one of the side pockets of the overnight bag that sat on the seat beside him and removed his wallet. From the wallet, he took twenty dollars. Shoving the money into his pocket, Jean-Paul stood and exited the bus. Stopping to look around briefly, Jean-Paul then started off to find something to eat.
There was a Burger Universe four buildings down from the bus depot, and although Jean-Paul didn't usually like to include fast food as part of his diet, it seemed to be his only choice, given the timetable. The Burger Universe didn't seem to be too busy, probably because it was about midway through the day and most of the joint's customers were at work or at school.
There was an open register to the far left of the counter. Jean-Paul approached and stood in front of the register, watching as people bustled through the kitchen, some running the drive-thru, others trying to keep up with the orders that would be coming in little over an hour, when the schools let out for the day. Jean-Paul leaned over the counter, aware that, in their rush to prepare for the afterschool rush, the employees of Burger Universe were neglecting him. Jean-Paul waited quietly for a few more seconds, then decided it was time to subtley get their attention.
He knocked on the countertop, and remained unnoticed. Jean-Paul cleared his throat, waited a second, then cleared it again, louder. Still, no one noticed that he was standing there. Jean-Paul began to wonder why they even bothered to open a register. Finally, he caught sight of a young man who was moving between the drive-thru window and the kitchen. "Excuse me," he called, trying to sound authoritative.
The boy stopped and looked at him, seeming to regard Jean-Paul as more of a curiosity than a customer. "Yes, sir?"
Jean-Paul looked at the boy with disbelief for a moment. "Yes," he said firmly. "I have one half hour before I need to catch a bus, and I was hoping to grab a bite to eat."
"Oh . . .," the young man said. He stopped, thought a moment, then pointed at the register in front of Jean-Paul. "That's Yvonne's register; she's in the bathroom."
Jean-Paul opened his mouth to speak, but the young employee had disappeared into the kitchen. Jean-Paul sighed, threw up his hands, and left. He had seen a convenience store across the street from the Burger Universe; maybe he could find a burrito to microwave.
He heard that people did that from time to time.
Gotham Heights High School, 2:30 p.m.
Tim checked his watch: five minutes left in study hall.
He had been sitting in total silence for almost ten minutes, having finished all the homework he could. Rubbing his temples, Tim squinted and looked to his left. Opening his eyes wide, then blinking once, he settled his gaze on Erica Greene, who was sitting three desks down from him. Tim looked blankly at her for awhile, then forced a grin.
The grin seemed to convince Erica, who pulled out the chair of the desk right next to Tim's and discreetly slid over to it, escaping the notice of the teacher. "Hi," she whispered, sounding almost excited. Erica calmed her voice, then continued. "Listen, I heard about what happened with you and Ariana at the dance Friday. Um, I'm sorry." Erica shrugged with her eyebrows.
Tim looked at Erica thoughtfully, trying to figure her out. Usually, whenever Tim and Ariana had a misunderstanding, Erice Greene had been the first one to side against Tim. Why was she suddenly being so sympathetic? Tim looked in her eyes, saw how she was looking at him, and it wasn't too difficult to figure out what was going on. "Thanks, Erica," Tim said hesitantly. He tried to make his next line sound as unsarcastic as possible, "I'm touched by your concern."
"You know, Tim," she said, situating herself in her chair so her entire body was turned towards Tim, "I've always considered you a close friend. And, when you and Ariana got together, I was happy for both of you, and not just because Ari's my best friend, either."
This only served to validate what Tim was already thinking. "Well, thank's again." Tim drew in a breath. "What exactly are you trying to tell me, Erica?"
A smile slowly crept across Erica's face. "I'm trying to say that . . . I've already been happy for Ariana . . . now, maybe it should be Ariana who's happy for me." Erica continued to smile, and looked straight into Tim's eyes. "Does that . . . make things a little more clear for you?"
Tim looked away and raised his eyebrows. "Crystal clear." Tim exhaled, looked down at the desk. "But, what are you saying, exactly?"
Erica rolled her eyes thoughtfully for a second, then brought her gaze back to Tim. "I'm saying I was hoping to catch a matinee on Gregory Street this weekend, and I was hoping on . . . not going alone."
Tim looked at Erica, at this person who had once seemed to regard him more as an enemy than any sort of friend, and was honestly at a loss for words. "Listen, Erica," he began slowly, "I'm going to have to really think about this. Really. But, I have your phone number . . . and I'll call you sometime this week."
Erica reached around and put her hand on Tim's far shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. "Take your time," she said softly, "I know how hard the rebound can be."
Erica returned to her own seat, and Tim was almost startled by the sound of the bell, ending class. Tim stood, slung his bookbag over his right shoulder, and made for the door. Suddenly, as he was walking to English, he couldn't stop picturing Ariana's face in his mind.
Winona Food Mart, Winona, Mississippi, 2:48 p.m.
The microwave rung once, and the light inside faded off.
Jean-Paul opened the microwave, took out his burrito, paid for it, then stepped outside. Jean-Paul had a little over ten minutes before the bus would be leaving; he unwrapped the burrito and took a bite as he walked back towards the bus depot. Having nothing else to do, Jean-Paul boarded the bus when he reached it. There were already a few people onboard, all of them new arrivals, beginning their journey from Winona.
Jean-Paul walked back to his seat, picked up his bag, and moved to sit down. Just as he was beginning to settle into his seat, Jean-Paul's eyes were locked straight ahead as the sound of a gunshot reached his ears. Grabbing his bag in one hand, heavy from his Azrael gear, still holding the burrito in his other hand, Jean-Paul left his seat and ran off the bus. The driver was just returning. "Hey, fella, we're leaving in ten minutes!" he called.
Jean-Paul didn't hear him. Dropping the buritto indifferently to the sidewalk, he moved swiftly in the direction he'd heard the shot. He spotted a short man in jeans and a black jacket running from the Food Mart, the same store Jean-Paul had left only moments ago. Jean-Paul could remember seeing the man enter the store just as he was about to leave.
The apparent robber had a fair-sized lead on Jean-Paul, but even with Jean-Paul's heavy bag still grasped in his left hand, that gap was quickly closing. When he was within four feet of the fleeing culprit, Jean-Paul swung his bag out in front of him, connecting with the shoulder of the robber. The man was knocked far to the left, stumbling. Jean-Paul dropped his bag to the side and tackled the fleeing assailant to the sidewalk, pinning his gunhand behind him and pinching the deltoid cluster below his shoulder to assure no more immediate movement.
Jean-Paul picked up the gun with his index finger and laid it safely along side of him. Jean-Paul pinned the robber to the ground until a uniformed police officer arrived to cuff the crook and take the gun.
"We'll need you to hang around sir," said the officer, "for questioning. That's all."
The cop started away with the burglar. "But, I need to catch a bus," Jean-Paul said, holding up his wristwatch as proof.
The cop just shrugged. "Should've thought of that before you decided to be a hero. Better stay put for now."
Jean-Paul watched the cop hustle the crook into the backseat of a squad car. As the lawman was starting back towards him, Jean-Paul had a thought . . .
Why does this never happen to Batman?
Wayne Manor, 2:59 p.m.
Alfred lifted his cup from the silver tray on the table in front of him and took a sip of the tea. He picked up the remote control and switched on the television.
The butler heard Bruce emerge from behind the grandfather clock in the study. Another second, Bruce stepped into the living room, sweating, a towel draped around his neck. He patted his face dry, then looked briefly at Alfred. "I thought the English usually had their tea at four."
Alfred took another sip with raised eyebrows, sighed in satisfaction, and sat the cup back down. "A tradition I long ago disgarded, Master Bruce. It's been nearly thirty years since I was officially an Englishman; I shall have my tea whenever it suits me."
Bruce seemed to accept this. He walked over and sat down on the easy chair next to the couch. Both he and Alfred stared at the television. "What is this?" Bruce asked, gesturing towards the TV screen.
"Bellington Falls, a serial program."
Bruce stared at the TV quietly for a moment. "A soap opera."
"I believe that is the vernacular terminology."
"I didn't know you liked soap operas, Alfred."
"Yes, well, I can't hold it against you. Your time is somewhat precious--you can't be bothered learning the habits of an old gentleman's gentleman."
Bruce looked from the TV, to Alfred, then back to the TV. "It's just that you know everything about me, and . . . you watch this show everyday?"
Alfred sipped his tea and nodded. "Monday through Friday, on channel sixteen. You really should turn it on downstairs during your treadmill exercises; if viewed enough, it can become quite enthralling."
The TV screen went blank a moment, then the Channel 16 logo flashed on, accompanied by an announcers voice, "We interupt Bellington Falls to bring you this special report. Reporting live from Channel sixteen studios, here is David Hierman."
The Channel 16 logo was replaced by the image of David Hierman, normally the anchorman for the five o'clock news. Hierman glanced up at the camera from a small stack of papers in front of him. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We've just been told that Arkham Asylum, Gotham City's somewhat infamous home for the criminally insane, has officially been sold to local entrepreneur Oswald Cobblepot. This marks the first time in the asylum's seventy-plus years of history that it will be owned by someone outside of the Arkham family. Most viewers will best remember Arkham Asylum as the site of one of the largest criminal breakouts in history, as nearly every inmate of the asylum's maximum security wing escaped, with assistance from master criminal Bane."
Bruce stood, picked up the remote control and switched off the television. "Did you know about this?" he asked Alfred.
Alfred stood, his face bearing a look of shock. "No sir, I assure you. This was the first time. I wasn't aware that Mr. Arkham was seeking to sell."
Bruce shook his head. "Nor was I, although Jeremiah Arkham has never been happy with his family legacy. I can't say his selling is a surprise to me . . ." Bruce dropped the remote control behind him on the couch and headed back to the Cave. "Alfred, call Dick; make sure he knows about this."
Bruce disappeared into the study and started down into the cave. It wasn't enough that the Penguin controlled the Gotham underworld, now he had access to some of the most twistedly brilliant criminal minds in the world.
Arkham Asylum, 3:12 p.m.
It's official name was the Heavy Duty Criminal Transport, but everyone in the Gotham Police Department called it the Heavy-D. It had been built from private donations, largely from the Wayne Foundation, for the purpose of safely transporting extremely dangerous, high-risk criminals. The dubious honor of driving the Heavy-D, as well as guarding the inmate, was known as Heavy-duty. Today, Officers John Byron, Joe Ptolemy, and Steve Shark had been given Heavy-duty. In the back of the HDCT, with Officers Byron and Ptolemy, sat Waylon Jones, a.k.a. Killer Croc, heavily shackled to the wall as well as the floor of the armored vehicle.
Croc had been apprehended outside of Gotham City, having been captured by men claiming to be bounty hunters in Louisiana. Croc had been held outside of the city until the HDCT could be dispatched, and was back at the only permanent home he had known for the past several years.
The asylum had the look of a large, dark castle, the grey stone walls of the original mansion contrasting with the modern addendum of the roundhouse, where the most dangerous patients spent their days and nights. The Heavy-D pulled around to the back entrance of the roundhouse and came to a stop. Officer Shark shut off the engine, pulled the keys from the ignition and shoved them into his pocket, and jumped out of the vehicle.
Shark took a shotgun from the gunrack behind the driver's seat, then shut and locked the door. Walking around to the back, Shark knocked three times hard on the back door. After exactly ten seconds, he heard a single knock from the inside. Shark unlocked the back door, then took hold of a metal tab near the middle of the armored door. The tab pulled out, a steel cable trailing behind it. Shark stepped back from the back door of the HDCT, brought up his shotgun, and pulled sharply on the cable.
The back door's back-up locking mechanism unlatched, and the door swung slowly open. Croc was seated and shackled safely to the interior of the vehicle. Inside, Officer Ptolemy unlocked Croc's shackles from the floor and wall, and led him out the door, with Officer Byron moving right behind him.
Croc was cooperative, walking without resistance up the wide dirt path that led to the asylum entrance. Officer Shark, who was leading the way, stumbled over a rock that jutted up from the rough dirth path. The rock turned over, and a small creature scurried out from the moist earth beneath it. Before the officers, who were looking to see if Officer Shark was all right, could stop him, Croc bent over and scooped the tiny animal into his hand. He brought it up to his face; it was a small red salamander.
Officer Ptolemy moved to flick the small lizard away, but Croc withdrew, and Byron intervened. "Just a salamander, Ptolemy; let 'im hang onto it." Byron leaned into Ptolemy's ear; "You know, Joe," he whispered, "This one's never been too bright."
"Mine now, lil' guy," Croc muttered, "All I can do, since I left 'im."
Ptolemy looked strangely at Byron. Byron only nodded at Croc and shrugged. They led him inside, and Croc looked around at the sterile white walls of the asylum's maximum security ward. Hard-Knox Yardley, who had been in almost constant contact with the Penguin, had explained the situation to Croc before turning him over to the police. This would be Croc's world, now; the world of man. The swamp of Louisiana was gone; Killer Croc would never allow himself to go back there.
Waylon Jones was a man.
Men don't live in swamps.
Jonathan Street Police Station, Winona, Mississippi, 3:34 p.m.
Jean-Paul walked through the front entrance, and was instructed to sit down in one of a row of chairs across from the station's front desk. Jean-Paul had stood idley at the scene of his apprehension of the robber for fifteen minutes before a Captain arrived and determined that it would be better to question Jean-Paul at the station.
Jean-Paul didn't see why, though. He hadn't witnessed the actual robbery, just heard the gunshot and collared the man running away with the gun. It seemed rather open-and-shut. Still, Jean-Paul had gone without question. Now, he sat silently as the small-town police station buzzed around him, surprisingly busy. Finally, the Captain who had been at the scene appeared from inside his office. He waved Jean-Paul towards him.
The Captain's office was sterile, its walls barren, no pictures framed and set up across his desk, no curtains on his single window. Jean-Paul took a seat in front of the Captain's desk. "I'm Captain Niles Bryanne. You said your name was . . . ?"
Jean-Paul stared expectantly at the Captain, then started. "Oh, Valley. Jean-Paul . . . Valley."
"And, where are you from, Mr. Valley?"
"I . . . I live in Gotham City, but originally, I'm from . . . Switzerland."
Captain Bryanne nodded. "You don't seem to have any accent . . ."
"I was born in Switzerland, but my father came here when I was very young. I've lived nearly my entire life here, in the United States."
The Captain nodded again. "Do you have any prior knowledge of the robbery suspect we took into custody today?"
"The one I captured? No, not before today. But, I did notice him in the store several minutes before, just as I was leaving."
Captain Bryanne shook his head slowly as he spoke, "You didn't have any suspicious feelings about this man? You'd never seen him before?"
Jean-Paul shook his head. "Never. Why? Is he a wanted felon?"
Captain Bryanne nodded once, and tossed a file onto the other side of the desk, in front of Jean-Paul. "In three states, including our good neighbor Louisiana." Bryanne raised his eyebrows. "Four counts of armed robbery, not counting today."
Jean-Paul picked up the file and browsed through it. After perusing it silently for a minute, Jean-Paul looked up. "If you know all this, if you have this man in your jail, why am I still here? Why even bother bringing me here?"
Captain Bryanne looked at Jean-Paul, studying his face. "Clever of you to see through my . . . diabolical ruse. No, Mr. Valley, you're not here with me now because of what you did today." Bryanne pushed his chair away from the desk and reached beneath it. He produced Jean-Paul's overnight bag, and dropped it on the desk.
Jean-Paul reached out for his bag, his heart in his throat, his hand beginning to shake nervously. Captain Bryanne put his arm across the bag and pulled it towards himself. "There certainly are some interesting articles in this gym bag of yours."
Jean-Paul smiled. "Yes, but I can explain that, Captain. I--"
"Please do. Explain."
Jean-Paul reached out for his bag. "May I?" he asked, pausing. Captain Bryanne nodded. Jean-Paul unzipped the top of the bag and removed his Azrael mask. "This is a costume, a knight's costume." Captain Bryanne listened on, staring at Jean-Paul silently. "You see, I am an actor, in medieval battle recreations. I was passing through Winona on my way home from the Olde Era festival in New Orleans."
Captain Bryanne rested his right cheek on his chin. "You expect me to believe that?"
Jean-Paul leaned to the left in his chair and reached into his back right pocket, removing his wallet. He flipped open the billfold, turned through several photo sleeves until he found the one he was looking for. He removed a plastic card and presented it to Bryanne. "'Guild of Medieval Preservation,'" Bryanne said, reading from the card. "'J. P. Valley, Member. A-K-A, Sir John Squel, twelve eighty-five to thirteen ten." Captain Bryanne handed the card back to Jean-Paul, took the Azrael mask from him and shoved it back in the bag. The Captain zipped up the bag and shoved it towards Jean-Paul. "Well, Sir John, I think you'd better check your bus schedule, and then head back to Gotham City."
Jean-Paul replaced the card into his wallet, took his bag, and stood. As he was leaving the office, Captain Bryanne called to him, "Mr. Valley," he said. Jean-Paul stopped and looked back at the Captain. "I'm sorry for the misunderstanding."
Jean-Paul nodded, and left the office.
Jean-Paul started down the hall. As he walked, he glanced over at the squad room, making eye contact with a female officer. Quickly looking away, Jean-Paul continued towards the exit. Before he reached the door, he felt a hand on his shoulder--it was the officer he had just seen.
She walked outside with him. Jean-Paul slung the shoulder strap of his bag on and started down the front steps. The officer followed him. "Wait," she said to him. Jean-Paul stopped at the bottom of the stairs and, looking in the opposite direction from her, rolled his eyes. Putting on a smile, he turned to face her. "Yes, ma'am?"
The policewoman squared her shoulders and cleared her throat. "I looked in your bag, and I saw what was in there."
Jean-Paul pointed back to the police station. "I just explained that to your Captain. You see, I'm an actor in Medieval battle recreations."
The policewoman smiled. "No, no, no. The Captain just transferred in here, so you might be able to fool him. But, you can't put one past me; my father worked for the Department of Defense, I know weapons when I see them." Jean-Paul started to speak, but the officer silenced him, holding up her index finger. "I wonder how many pretend knights wear bulletproof ceramic armor?"
Jean-Paul could tell he was trapped; it had obviously been this woman who had searched his bag, not Captain Bryanne. "What gave you the right to search my belongings, anyway?"
The policewoman smiled, looking to the side. "It was found at the scene of a crime. For all I knew, you could've been holding it for the felon."
Jean-Paul sighed, turning around in a circle and placing his hands on his hips. He glared at the policewoman. "What do you want?"
"My name is Diane Benson."
Jean-Paul looked straight at her, empty of any emotion. "Hello, Officer Benson."
Diane Benson looked Jean-Paul up and down, then fixed her eyes on his bag. "What are you? Some kind of vigilante, like the Batman? Your luggage tag said 'Gotham City.'"
"You would be better off to forget about what you saw in my bag, Officer. It won't cause either of us anything but trouble."
Officer Benson shook her head vehemently. "No. I can't forget. I can't forget because I need your help."
Jean-Paul was growing annoyed. "Help with what?"
Diane Benson looked around nervously, shifting back and forth on her feet. "I can't tell you here." She moved very close to Jean-Paul and stood up on her tiptoes to reach his ear. "I know that Bryanne probably told you to leave, but stay at least until tonight." She looked around her again. "Meet me at eleven tonight. My apartment is at thirteen five Washington Drive, Apartment Two."
After that, Officer Benson hurried back up the steps and into the police station. Jean-Paul shifted around listlessly for a moment, then picked a direction and started down the sidewalk. He was going to need someplace to spend today and tonight.
Apartment of Dick Grayson, 6:05 p.m.
Dick had been sitting in front of the TV practically since Alfred had called, hours ago. He had been flipping through channels, looking for any additional news about the purchase of Arkham by Oswald Cobblepot. He hadn't found anything, and the day's newspaper was already printed, so it would likely contain nothing as well. Dick finally switched off the television set and stood, his knees popping as he stretched. He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. It was hard to believe just how complicated his life had suddenly become.
Oswald Cobblepot claimed to be a reformed man, he claimed that his life was devoted now to business, to making him and those around him as rich as possible in all areas. The media at large seemed to accept this claim without argument, but many citizens felt just the opposite. Nightwing, Batman, Robin, all three knew for a fact that Oswald Cobblepot was now the most powerful and influential crimelord in Gotham City. Racketeering, prostitution, hired killings, and now Arkham Asylum, all under his direct control, with nothing to legally find him guilty of any crime.
The Penguin wasn't all that was on Dick's mind. In between newscasts, Dick had caught himself glancing towards the kitchen, towards the phone. Heidi Barrell's face had been everpresent in his mind since the hospital today. Every time, Dick had banished the image, nearly overcome with feelings of guilt. Dick had saved her life, saved her child's life, but let her husband die. But, it wasn't the child that would grow up fatherless that consumed Dick's thoughts; it wasn't that Heidi would have to raise her son or daughter alone. All Dick could think about was how beautiful she was, how lovely her voice sounded, how sweet she had been to him.
Dick caught himself glancing at the phone again, but instead of making himself look away again, this time he stared harder at the phone, trying to will it to ring.
The phone rang.
Dick jumped, startled. His stomach suddenly seemed twice as heavy as the rest of his body; he stood and started into the kitchen. The phone rang again. That's never worked before, Dick thought as he stood in front of the phone. In one motion, Dick reached out and plucked the handset from the hook. Bringing it to his ear, "Hello?"
"Hi. Dick?" came Heidi's voice. Dick suddenly felt light-headed.
Dick stammered for a second, then collected himself. "Uh, yeah. Heidi. Hi. . . . Wow."
Heidi laughed on the other end. "You said to keep you posted on my baby."
Dick cracked a smile. "That was fast!"
"Well . . ." Dick could tell Heidi was smiling. "He just kicked."
"Great. . . . Is that why you called me?"
Heidi laughed again, self-consciously. "You wouldn't believe it, but you're the only Dick Grayson in the phonebook. You're the only one in the whole city!"
"I guess that means I'm one of a kind, eh?"
"What kind of name is Grayson, anyway?"
Dick sighed. "Not sure, really. My family travelled so much when I was younger . . . I'm not sure I even have roots anymore!"
"Travelled? What did your parents do?" Heidi seemed genuinely interested.
"Um, they were--we were, actually--circus performers."
"No! Come-on, you've got to be jerking me around."
"I'm serious! And, I would never jerk you around, Heidi."
"Really? You were with the circus? Like, Barnum and Bailley?"
"Haley Circus, actually. My parents and I were acrobats; the Fabulous Flying Graysons."
"That's great. Why did you give it up?"
Dick sighed again. The reason he left the circus, the reason he became Robin, the reason his life took the direction it did--it wasn't something he enjoyed talking about, to anyone. Still, there was something about this woman; he couldn't lie to her. Dick drew in a deep breath before he spoke. "My parents were killed when I was almost fifteen."
Dick had said it so quickly that Heidi didn't have time to react. "I . . . Oh my Guh . . . Oh my God. I'm . . . I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry."
Dick shrugged. "Don't be. That was a long time ago. Eight years later, I'm a totally different person."
Heidi was quiet for a long time. "I'm sorry, you sort of caught me off-guard. I mean . . . it's just . . ."
Dick shook his head and said into the phone, "Let's not talk about my parents anymore, all right? You asked me a question, that was my answer."
"Oh, sure. Well, I just thought I'd call . . . you know, since you asked."
"Well, thanks. It was . . . really nice talking to you."
"Um . . . bye."
"Call me again," Dick heard himself blurt out.
"I will. . . . Bye."
"Bye . . ." Dick waited until the phone was silent before hanging up. He shuffled back into the living room and fell backwards into the couch, closing his eyes, and seeing her face again.
Dick didn't even try to get rid of it this time.
135 Washington Drive, Winona, Mississippi, 10:58 p.m.
Apartment Two was on the first floor, right across from Apartment One, and at a right angle to the doorway that hid the stairs, leading up to Apartment's Three and Four.
Jean-Paul stood in front of the door to Apartment Two and knocked three times. Almost immediately, he heard the locks on the other side being undone. The door opened, and Diane Benson presented herself, dressed simply in blue jeans and a black tee-shirt. Her blonde hair fell down, laying on her shoulders. Jean-Paul looked her over briefly, then squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "I'm here."
"Come-in," Diane said, ushering him inside. "You can sit down if you want, on the couch. Did you bring the costume?"
Jean-Paul found the couch and took a seat. "No. I left my bag in my motel room."
Diane sat down on the couch beside him, staring at him matter-of-fact-ly. "I know that you're some kind of vigilante." Diane waited for a response.
Jean-Paul looked at her expectantly. "Yes . . . ? Is that the only reason you asked me to come here--for your theory on my profession?"
"You are a crimefighter. And, I need your help with something."
Jean-Paul was hesitant, but something about the woman's face made him want to hear her out. "Help with what?"
Diane stood and walked over to a small chest of drawers, opened the top drawer, and removed a small photograph. She returned to Jean-Paul and handed it to him. "The little boy in that photograph is my son. He was taken by his father last year, when he was six years old."
Jean-Paul looked at the photograph, at the innocence in the little boy's face. "You want me to find your son."
Diane's eyes were becoming red. She shook her head. "No. No, that's not what I want. My son . . . when I first got involved with his father, I didn't know what kind of man he was. Victor was sick . . . he had problems that I didn't know about."
Jean-Paul put the photograph down and looked at Diane, who was beginning to cry. "What kind of problems?"
"He didn't just decide one day to take Todd--my son--and run. I found out later that . . . Victor had been . . . he had been . . . molesting Todd since he was four. When they found my son's body . . . well . . . he had been left to bleed to death after . . . after . . ."
Jean-Paul put his hand on Diane's shoulder, and Diane fell towards him. Jean-Paul embraced her. "Do you want me to find your husband?"
He felt Diane nod. "He's evil. I know he's evil. You have to find him."
Jean-Paul embraced her tighter, then pushed her back across the couch. "I don't think I should get involved. This is a personal matter."
Diane sniffed, and wiped her eyes. "I want you involved. Look, I'm a cop; I've looked for Victor for almost a year, and nothing. The F-B-I has been doing the same, and still nothing. I need someone like you."
"If people with the resources of the F-B-I haven't been able to find your husband, what makes you think I will be able?"
"There's a limit to what law enforcement can do. We have to operate within certain boundaries; but not you. I've heard about the Batman, about the justice he's capable of serving. You're like him; I know it."
Jean-Paul shook his head. "If you're hoping for the Batman, I'm afraid you might be disappointed."
Diane didn't seem to hear the remark. "When you find Victor, I want you to kill him. He has to pay . . . he has to pay for my son."
"He may be mentally ill. I can't just--"
"Kill him. Imagine if it were your son; imagine if your son had been raped and left to die by the person you thought you loved more than anything. You know he deserves to die."
Jean-Paul stood. "His name is Victor Benson?"
Diane nodded. "Although he's probably using an alias, now."
Jean-Paul walked to the door, then stopped. He walked back to the couch and picked up the picture of Todd Benson. "May I keep this?"
"Yes," Diane answered. "I have a lot of those."
Jean-Paul looked at the picture of the little boy, then slipped the photograph into the inside pocket of his jacket. He looked at Diane once more before opening the door and leaving. "I can only promise you that I'll try to find him," he said.
Diane shook her head. "I know you'll find him. That's why you came here."
Jean-Paul stepped out into the foyer and shut the door. Once he was outside, he started back for his motel, wishing he had the same confidence in himself as did this woman who he had met only hours ago.
Jean-Paul took out the picture of the little boy and looked at under the light of a streetlamp. He could see in the boy's eyes his own childhood. Jean-Paul could see the humanity that had almost been taken from him. Jean-Paul saw himself in the face of the dead boy.
His thoughts spurred not by confidence, but by sheer will, Jean-Paul Valley knew, as he looked at the photograph, that he would find this boy's killer.