BATMAN: The New Continuity

Dick couldn't believe what he had just heard. What did the nurse mean, "complications?" Dick squared his shoulders, cleared his throat.

"What do you mean . . . 'complications?'"

The nurse took a breath, then interlocked her fingers and put her hands on her trim stomach. "Well, sir . . . as I said, the baby is fine. But--"

Dick closed his eyes, his brow knitted in both anger and frustration. "The mother. That's who I'm asking about. Listen, don't take me around in circles. What happened--is she alive?"

The nurse stammered; she obviously wasn't used to getting to the point. "Well, sir . . . during birth, Mrs. Barrell suffered a rupture of the--"

Dick took hold of the nurse's arm, squeezing her wrist. "Is--she--alive?"

"Well--"

Dick's eyes were wide; he held up his index finger, waving it back and forth. "Ah--ah--ah. Yes or no."

The nurse inhaled suddenly. "No. No, the mother didn't make it."

His mouth fell open. Dick squeezed the nurse's wrist hard for an instant, then relaxed his hand and let her go. The nurse brought her arm to her chest and massaged her red forearm. Dick stepped backwards until his back hit against the wall beside the waiting room door. His eyes were darting from point to point, all over; his mouth was opening and closing involuntarily. Dick shook his head, and when the nurse tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, he pushed her forcefully away. Finally, his head turned to the side, his eyes focused on the floor of the hospital, blinking over and over again. "Where . . . where is she?"

"Sir, I'm not sure that you should--"

"Just . . . tell me where she is."

The nurse bowed her head and gestured to an elevator down the hall. "Go up to the fourth floor. She should still be in Birthing Room Four." Dick started for the elevator. "Wait!" the nurse called after him. She tried her best to fake a smile. "Her . . . her child is the nursery on floor six. If you want to . . ."

Dick nodded. "Right." He pressed the button next to the elevator labeled with an up-pointing arrow. Several seconds later, the doors slid open, and three orderlies stepped out. Dick stepped in, promptly pushing the button for the fourth floor. He heard someone from down the hall yell at him to hold the elevator, but he didn't. When the elevator stopped at the third floor and two female doctors, spouting medical jargon, boarded, Dick shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped into the back corner of the car.

Looking down at the floor, Dick thought he heard something. He looked up, and for the second time, one of the doctors said, "Sir?"

Dick blinked several times. "Yes? What?"

The doctor pointed at the open elevator doors. "Is this your floor?"

Dick stared at the hallway beyond the doors, then looked back and forth at the two doctors. "Oh . . . yes. Yes it is." Dick brushed past both women and stepped out of the elevator just as the doors were beginning to close. He started down the hall, not even looking where he was going. His mind was racing with so many things. When he looked up from the floor passing rapidly beneath his feet, he caught sight of the sign over a room which read "Birth Room 4." He stopped, having already passed the room.

There was a female orderly in the room, cleaning up the puddle of blood that covered the floor at the foot of the bed. The girl looked up at Dick; she couldn't have been older than twenty years old. "Can I help you?"

Dick had been fixated on her since walking up to the room's entrance, not allowing himself to look at the bed. Now, his eyes wandered slowly up and over. He saw legs glistening in sweat, feet still slipped into the stirrups.

Inner thighs, splashed red with blood.

Blue and white polka-dot hospital gown, laid over a still-pregnant looking, round stomach, stained crimson as well.

Blonde hair laying limply over shoulders, matted down against a sweat-covered forehead.

Lips slightly parted, unmoving. Eyes. Closed. Forever.

Dick stepped slowly, uncertainly into the room. The female orderly's face bore a look of utter sadness. She approached Dick. "Excuse me . . . but, were you her husband?"

Dick didn't hear her at first, he just knew that she'd said something to him. He just stared at Heidi's body, not saying anything. Turning to the young orderly, he shook his head, although he wasn't entirely sure why. "Her . . . husband is dead. . . . He died."

The orderly seemed about to cry. "I'm so sorry . . . I . . . I was here. I was assisting when . . . when--"

"What happened?" Dick's voice was barely audible; a whisper.

"I don't know. I just . . . oh my . . ." The girl put her hand to her forehead, then over her eyes. When she removed it, there were tears beginning to well up. "There was just so much blood. I've never . . . never seen anything like that. The baby came out . . . and everything--everything was okay. Then . . . she just started bleeding." The orderly sobbed all of a sudden. Dick turned his eyes away from the bed and looked at her. "She started bleeding . . . and it just wouldn't stop. The doctors were . . . they were frantic. They couldn't stop it . . . they tried, but . . ."

Dick bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing one small tear out of each. "Leave me alone for a minute," he asked quietly, although his voice was as loud as he thought he could make it right now. The young orderly patted him lightly on the shoulder, then walked out into the hall. Dick stepped forward and rested his hands on the bed's metal railing.

He squeezed the railing involuntarily. His mouth was open, his eyes were already red with tears, and he could feel them starting to stream down his face. She looks like she's asleep, he thought suddenly. He remembered thinking that exact same thing almost nine years ago . . . he cast his mind back to then.

It was his parent's funeral. Dick, fourteen then, stood over his mother's coffin. She laid there, expertly made-up by the mortician the night before. She looked so peaceful. She looked almost alive, and Dick clung to the childish hope that she might open her eyes, smile at him, hold him and tell him that she was all right. Everything would be fine, it was all a mistake. You were imagining things, Dick. It was the stress from performing.

That's how it should have been. If God was anyone at all, if there was any such thing as fairness, as a fair shake, that's how it should have been.

It just wasn't fair.

Dick looked at Heidi's lifeless body, lying perfectly still--timeless and ageless--on the bed. He was a teenager again, looking down at his dead mother.

There were a million different things running back and forth across his mind. He couldn't make sense of this. Why was she here? Why was she dead, when not four hours ago he had spoken to her on the phone. She'd just given birth to a son, a son who now would have to grow up and face life without a father or a mother. What was the purpose? What possible good could come from this?

Is this why I saved her from that fire? Is this why she lived, and her husband burned to death? So this could happen? Not knowing what to do, awash with feelings he hadn't felt with such force since that cold morning nine years ago, Dick leaned down to Heidi's face. He kissed her cold lips, something he hadn't been able to do when she lived, a regret which was just beginning to work its way through him. When the kiss was over, he felt a myriad of emotions, not the least of which being guilt.

He looked at her face again, looking at her through a thick film of his own tears. He inhaled, then let out a shaky breath. In the small voice of a shocked, grieving child, he brought his face down close to hers again and said, "I think I loved you."

Still gripping the bed railing, Dick bowed his head and closed his eyes. For the next several minutes, all he did was breathe.

WWGC Building, 1 Broadcast Hill, 4:57 p.m.

Commissioner Gordon had already left, as had Sarah, the mayor, Councilman Reeves, and Summer Gleeson. Only Lieutenant Kitch and several uniformed officers remained, talking to traumatized audience members, or answering questions from reporters.

The crisis was over; Jo Travis was sitting now in a cell at the city jail, already booked and charged. Kitch had answered questions about the hostage situation for five minutes, much longer than he usually allowed himself. Now, he was leaving. He was going home.

Afterall, his brother was in town now. Who needed police work? Darren was enough to deal with.

Kitch waved off the final questions of a few dedicated news people, climbed into his car, and started it up. He checked the clock; it wasn't even five o'clock yet. Kitch couldn't remember the last time he'd allowed himself to go home this early. But, this day already seemed to be dragging on forever. He pulled out of the WWGC parking lot and onto Broadcast Hill, which became Geraldine Avenue at the next intersection, half a block away.

Kitch's apartment was on Brentwood Avenue, a fact which had provoked more than a few jokes at Headquarters recently. Brentwood was about ten blocks away, hopefully Kitch would be home very soon. He turned at the intersection onto Penn Street, which was nearly empty, save for a small Toyota coup several hundred feet ahead.

There was nothing else to look at, so--ignoring a Driver's Ed class he'd taken over twenty years ago--he fixated on the car. It was small, maneuverable. When it turned, it did so effortlessly, immediately changing directions as directed by its driver.

Still several hundred feet ahead of Kitch, the small car's brake lights came on. It stopped suddenly at a curb, and its passenger door opened. A stiff form, shrouded in a pastel yellow bedsheet, tumbled out. The car promptly sped up and turned off at the next intersection, disappearing from Kitch's sight. Oh God . . . not now, Kitch thought as he brought his car to a stop along the curb, where the wrapped form had been dropped.

Kitch stepped out of his car and walked around. He knelt down at the sheet-covered mass; it was obviously a human body. Kitch reached into his back pocket and removed his pocket knife, unfolding the blade and cutting a slit in the sheet. He pocketed his knife, then tore a larger hole in the yellow sheet: it was a man, white skin, dark hair, facial stubble. As far as Kitch could tell, he was naked. Down near where the man's crotch was, the yellow sheet was stained dark with blood. The blood was dry.

"Dammit," Kitch mumbled as he stood and walked back around to his car, switching on his police radio. "This is Kitch."

"We hear you, Lieutenant. What is it?"

Kitch looked out his window at the body. "I've got a body here. It was just dumped, but he looks like he's been dead awhile. I'm on Penn Street, in front of house number twenty-one oh five."

"Roger, Lieutenant. We'll send someone out A-sap. Just hold tight."

"Right." Kitch switched off the radio, then sat in his car, one arm resting over the steering wheel. He looked at the body. "I was going home, you know. Your timing could not have been worse."

Wayne Manor, 6:53 p.m.

Bruce stepped into the house from the garage, and was immediately greeted by the blaring sound of Homer Simpson's voice.

"Oh, but Maaarrrge!"

Bruce stepped into the living room, holding his ears. The room's large, projection-screen television was on, it's volume up as far as it would go, the twin speakers vibrating. Able to feel the sound washing over him, Bruce inched up to the TV and downed the volume to a humane level. From the kitchen, he heard Alfred's voice.

"Master Bruce? Have you returned?"

Bruce cast his gaze towards the kitchen, then looked back at the TV. "Yes, Alfred," he called back. He kept looking at the TV as he began to walk past it, then started for the kitchen. Alfred was stirring up a thick brown batter on the counter. He stopped and regarded Bruce, who watched the butler with expectation from the doorway.

"Your meeting at WayneTech went well, I trust?"

Bruce's gaze was constant. "Yes, yes. It went fine, Alfred. We're buying Aparo Limited. I'm having Lucious work through the details." Bruce drew in a breath, put his right hand in his pocket. "Alfred, is there some reason why the big screen was turned all the way up?"

Alfred glanced at Bruce, then looked down at his bowlful of cake batter with typical English indifference. "The Simpsons, sir."

"The Simp-- . . . what?"

"I enjoy watching the program while I'm in the kitchen, Master Bruce."

Bruce nodded once. "But, why aren't you watching on your television?"

"Well, sir, earlier this morning, while I was watching the repeat adventures of the A-Team, I accidentally knocked the set on the floor. I suppose I was too swept up in the preparation of my lunch. I made an exquisite vegetable soup, with a melted-cheese sandwich and some hot Earl Grey."

"You broke your kitchen TV."

"Yes sir. But, not to worry. I don't believe it will be necessary to purchase another; I passed it along to Mr. Harold. I am confident he will be able to repair the damage."

Bruce nodded. "All right. All right. I'm going down there now; I'll check in and see how he's coming with it."

Bruce turned and started back through the dining room. "Master Bruce?" Alfred called back.

"Yes?"

"Shall I expect you for dinner, sir? This German chocolate cake shall be dessert."

There was a short pause. "I don't think so, old friend. Not tonight. I've been stuck in a meeting all day, and I need to add a file on the woman who held the mayor hostage today to my database. Could you fix me something? Maybe a lean steak, no salt, and a baked potato with some light pepper? Bring it down in a little over an hour?"

Alfred nodded to himself. "Of course, sir."

He heard Bruce's footsteps resume across the hardwood floor of the dining room, then into the carpeted living room.

Bruce cut straight through the living room, into his father's study. Even though Thomas Wayne had been dead for twenty-five years, the room was still referred to as his, as it would always be. Bruce walked inside, shut the door behind him, and stood before the old antique grandfather clock. He unlatched the glass cover and pulled it away from the face, then turned the hands of the clock to 12:07. Something within the clock unlatched, and a spring-loaded hinge popped it several inches away from the wall, gripping the edge of the clock, Bruce swung it wide open, stepped down onto the stone staircase that spiraled down behind it, and closed the clock tight behind him.

Trotting down into the cave, Bruce skipped the fifth, ninth, eleventh, seventeenth, and thirty-second steps. If any of these steps were touched, it would trigger the Batcave's internal security mechanism, locking down all entrances and exits, securing the computer and the Batmobile, and sealing the costume vault. Access to the lower level of the cave would be cut off completely, and no one could enter or leave the cave until an authorized occupant (Bruce, Dick, Tim, Alfred, or Harold) input a proper security code into a keypad which was camouflaged somewhere on the cave wall. Bruce had skipped those particular five steps so often in the last ten years, he didn't even need to think about it anymore. It was unconscious.

Bruce walked across the smooth limestone floor, shrugging off his wool sport jacket and dropping it over the back of his chair in front of the computer console. He loosened, then removed his tie and tossed it over the right arm of the chair. Bruce turned and started for the elevator, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his silk shirt, then opening and rolling his sleeves up over his muscular forearms.

He stepped into the elevator, and it started down to the cave's second plateau. Before he was halfway down, Bruce could hear Harold puttering around in his workshop. The blonde-haired little dwarf was constantly at work on something. He had personally designed the grappling gun, nightvision lenses, and listening devices that Batman, Robin, and Nightwing had used in the past two or so years, since Harold took up residence in the cave.

Bruce stepped off the elevator and turned left, towards Harold's laboratory, which was identified as a beacon of light in the dark recesses of the cave. Bruce started for the lab, then instinctively dodged to the right. He heard something clatter to the floor behind him, then the clicking of claws against the stone. Bruce stepped to the side and watched the dog, Ace, bound fearlessly into the darkness, returning moments later with a dead, dried-out stick.

From the lab door, Harold was clapping his hands. He bent over and petted the dog lovingly on the head and behind the ears as Ace returned with the stick. Harold looked up and waved to Bruce, then motioned for him to follow him into the lab. Ace waited for Bruce to enter, then tagged happily behind, his tail wagging madly, the stick jutting absurdly from out of both sides of his mouth.

"Have you had a chance to work on Alfred's T-V set?" Bruce asked, leaning down and scratching Ace on the head. The dog sat down on his haunches at Bruce's feet, then slid down on his belly and began chewing on the stick, holding it between his front paws. Harold nodded, walking over behind his workbench and lifting Alfred's television up onto the top. He patted it's top proudly, then gave Bruce the "Okay" sign with his thumb and index finger. Bruce took the TV against his chest and lifted it easily off of the workbench. He started for the door, then stopped, remembering something. "Oh, Harold," The dwarf looked at Bruce inquisitively. "I've been having problems with the nightvision on the cowl for suit number five. It kept shorting out when I was testing it after patrol on Friday. Check it out, when you find the time. I think it might be a glitch in the lens' microcircuitry."

Harold nodded, smiled and gave Bruce a thumbs-up. Bruce gave Harold a nod, then walked out onto the plateau again. When he reached the top level of the cave, Bruce took the television to the stone pedestal that rose up from the floor, where the TV would wait for Alfred. Just as Bruce was sitting down in front of the computer console, the phone rang.

The computer's screensaver disappeared, and in one of the smaller monitors an information window appeared:

Incoming Call: data, video components

Bruce closed the info window, then opened a communications program, one which he and Tim had written especially for the Batcave's computer, which allowed for two-way video communication. Bruce switched on a small camera mounted to the left of the large computer monitor, and checked the ID of the caller; it was Oracle.

Bruce answered the call, turning on the camera. On the small color screen below the camera, the image of Barbara Gordon appeared. "Oracle," Bruce greeted. "What is it?"

Oracle took a deep breath. "Well, I was monitoring the police band earlier today, and I thought you might be interested to know what Lieutenant Kitch found today . . ."

Gotham City Police Headquarters, 7:10 p.m.

"Coroner have anything on my body yet?"

Commissioner Gordon shook his head. "Not yet. Kitch, the docs downtown are overrun. The body was taken to the morgue just a little over an hour and a half ago. Going to have to be patient."

Lieutenant Kitch nodded, folding his hands on his stomach.

"So," Gordon said, twirling a pencil between his thumb and forefinger, "have you decided who's getting the case?"

Kitch regarded Gordon strangely. "I'm sorry?"

"Homicide, Special Crimes . . . who's getting the case?"

Kitch shifted in his chair. "Actually, Jim, I was planning on handling this one myself." Gordon shrugged with his eyebrows. "Well, it's not that unusual, Jim. It's been three years since the promotion, and I haven't gotten really hands-on into a case for a long time."

Gordon nodded, eyes wide. "Yes. I know. That's why we have detectives. You're not a detective anymore, Samuel. The badge in your wallet says Lieutenant."

"I know, I know. But I want this one, Jim. Whoever did it dumped the guy right in front of me. I can't help but feel a little attached to this one."

"Who's going to handle the paperwork?"

"It can wait. This case shouldn't take too long; whoever killed this guy dumped him out of his car in broad daylight. Doesn't seem like the most intelligent man. What could it hurt for me to get out and stretch my legs a few days?"

Gordon tapped the eraser of his pencil on the desk. Finally, he cocked his head to the side, then nodded. "All right, Lieutenant. Sheet-man is yours . . . if you really want him."

Kitch nodded. "I do, sir."

"You've got it." Kitch smiled and stood, starting to leave. Gordon held up his hand. "Hang-on, Kitch." The Lieutenant turned around and looked at Gordon, arms out at his sides. Gordon slid out from behind his desk on the rollers of his chair and grabbed a file folder off of the top of the closest filing cabinet. He tossed the folder onto his desk, then rolled back behind it. "I'm assigning you a partner with this one."

Kitch's mouth fell open; he stepped forward and looked at the commissioner with open-eyed shock. "What . . . ? A partner--why?"

Gordon nodded down at the folder; Kitch picked it up and opened it. He briefly read over its contents, then gazed up again at the commissioner. "There was another one?"

"Mmm-hmm. Two days ago. Looks like the work of the same man. Matching M-O; body dumped in a public place, naked, wrapped in a sheet. This one had been dead for approximately thirty-six hours when found. Even the car matches--a small red Toyota coup."

"Any plates?"

Gordon shook his head. "None. Just an eyewitness who saw the driver dump the body in his front yard, then speed away."

Kitch nodded, read over the file for another minute. He closed it, stuck the folder under his arm, and looked at Gordon. "Who's the partner?"

"Mark Finster, Homocide Detective, eleventh precinct. He was first on the scene when the first body was found." Gordon tapped the pencil on the desk, then dropped it into a coffee mug full of pencils and pens in the corner. "Smells like another serial killer, Kitch. Now, he belongs to you and Finster." He nodded towards his office door. "Better get to work." Kitch turned and walked towards the door again. "Kitch." Kitch turned back around, grasping the door knob. "Good luck," Gordon finished. "You might need it."

"Thanks. I hope not," Kitch said with a nod as he opened the door.

Beneath Wayne Manor, 8:34 p.m.

Alfred descended the stairs carrying a silver tray. The tray held a plate, with a thick, well-done steak--trimmed totally of fat--and a baked potato, black sprinkles of pepper speckled over its fluffy surface. The butler stepped off the staircase onto the cave floor, and looked around; the computer's screensaver was activated, and the Batmobile was gone.

Alfred sat the tray down on the stone pedestal next to his television, then picked up the TV. "Hmmph," he said quietly to himself, "gone for the evening already? It must've been important . . ."

He took the television upstairs and sat it back where it belonged, on the kitchen counter. Then, Alfred went back to preparing his dinner.

City Morgue, 8:49 p.m.

The security systems at the morgue were almost pitiful. But then, no one ever broke into the place, except Batman. And, he had done it so many times in the past ten years that the guards had no idea he had even been there. This time was different, however. This time, he had come several hours earlier than before, when the building was still occupied. It was necessary, however--he wanted to get to the body Kitch had found before anyone else could. There were certain aspects of the crime that he had to know, and only an autopsy would tell him.

The body was kept in a refrigerated compartment in a room on floor three of the morgue building. This information was courtesy of Oracle, who had tapped into the morgue's computer filing system and secured a copy of the admittance papers for John Doe #22145. The storage room was located in the center of the floor, away from windows or any outside walls, for optimum temperature control. Batman could enter the building easily, through a window or back entrance, but getting to the second floor storage room with a building still partially populated with workers, might prove a problem.

Batman entered through a back service entrance, and immediately saw a door labeled "Custodian's Office." Luis Melnez, the building's Head Custodian, was usually on rounds with his mop and bucket at this time, so the office should be empty. After picking the lock, Batman found that it was, and there were also several spare jumpsuits in an open utility locker. Closing the office door, Batman pulled his cowl off and let it hang back behind his head. He found a suit in the locker that was several sizes too large for Bruce Wayne, but it would fit perfectly over the kevlar armor of the Batman costume, and hide the cape sufficiently as well.

When he was dressed in the custodian's jumpsuit, Batman found a Gotham Knights baseball hat, and pulled it on, placing the bill low on his forehead. Shoving his hands into his pockets, slouching heavily, and shuffling his feet as he walked, Batman opened the door and exited the office. He started down the hall, stopping when he found a service elevator.

The elevator went straight from ground level to the third floor with no stops. Stepping off onto the third floor, Batman looked left and right as if he were crossing a street. If memory served correctly--and it always did--the entrance to the refrigerated storage room was down the hall to the left and around the corner. He started in that direction, walking at a leisurely pace, maintaining his shuffling feet and slouching shoulders.

"Hey! Hey, in the hall!"

Batman turned around; whoever it was, they were yelling at him. He blinked several times. "Yeah?"

Another custodian was walking towards him up the hall. He stopped halfway to Batman, squinting at him in the subdued light of the hallway. "Seen Stan around last couple minutes?"

Batman closed his eyes, looked up into one of the ceiling lights, appearing to be in thought. "I think he was downstairs. Second floor. Just saw 'im."

The custodian shook his head, then walked over and stepped into the elevator. He waved at Batman, then was gone. As soon as the elevator started down, Batman unzipped the jumpsuit and removed his lock-pick device from his utility belt and stepped around the corner. The entrance to the storage room was just ahead. He stepped up, looking around as he pressed up against the door and inserted a lock-pick into the doorknob. The door came open almost immediately, and he was inside the next instant, closing and locking the door. He looked around the room; there were several large air conditioning vents that would provide adequate escapes if someone tried to get in.

The storage freezers lined the opposite wall of the room; they were labeled with paper tags indicating who's body was inside. The freezer which held John Doe #22145 was all the way over to the right, the third compartment up from the bottom. Batman opened the freezer and pulled out the extendible platform on which the body rested. He pulled back the sheet that covered him and pushed the baseball cap up high on his forehead. There was something he noticed almost immediately.

Reaching into his jumpsuit, and around to the back of his belt, Batman removed one of the yellow plates. Once it was unsnapped, he opened it up and sat it on the table next to the John Doe's head. It was a digital voice recorder, much clearer than a standard tape recorder, and could record for up to two hours before its memory disk maxxed out. It was a useful device, although it was usually reserved for autopsy records.

Batman pressed the record button, and began his visual examination of the body:

"This is a record for my examination of John Doe number two-two-one-four-five. The coroner estimates that the body was dead for approximately two days when it was discovered. The first thing I notice is that the victim has been castrated. The flesh around the wound it torn, messy. I'd say a serrated blade was used, most likely a kitchen knife. And, it was done in a hurry. The killer most definitely didn't take his time. This could indicate that he either committed the crime in a public place and was anxious to get it over with . . . or he somehow didn't like what he was doing. At this point, I'd be willing to go either way."

Batman hit the pause button on the voice recorder, then took the body by the right arm and leg, pushed him halfway off the table, then rolled him over on his stomach. Batman resumed the recording:

"There are bruises on the lower back that look to have been caused by a fist. I can perceive an area of swelling on the head, also most likely the result of a fist. Most noteworthy on the back side of the corpse, I notice a stretching of the area around the anus. . . . Upon closer examination, there is severe tearing of the membrane of the rectum. I don't think it's too presumptuous to speculate as to what cause this injury. It was most likely the result of sexual intercourse, and from the severity of the injury to the membrane, I'd say it became quite violent at some point. That's most likely when the killer hit the victim."

Batman again paused the recording. There were closets on the wall to Batman's right. In these closets, he found several trays of dissection instruments; scalpels, rib spreaders, forceps, clamps, and so on. He placed one of the trays on a rollable utility cart, and pushed the cart over next to the table where John Doe #22145 lay. He rolled the body back over, took a scalpel from the tray, and began cutting along the center of the victim's abdomen. He hit the record button again.

Gotham City Police Headquarters, 9:12 p.m.

Detective Mark Finster was at least ten years older than Kitch, and about two inches taller. The man had close-cropped black hair with sprinkles of gray here and there, and a one-inch scar across his left cheek. His eyebrows grew together in the middle of his forehead, and he had light stubble growing on his face.

In short, the man looked tough.

He had entered Kitch's office almost one hour ago, dressed in a checkered, short-sleeved button-up shirt, black neck tie, and black slacks, socks, and shoes. Kitch had been reading over the file Commissioner Gordon had given him.

"Terrence Cunningham, twenty-five year-old homosexual male. Friends say he was a regular at Alvin's, a bar in Partytown. Autopsy report states that he was castrated, and had extensive and severe injuries to the anus and rectum which are most likely the result of violent rape. The rape occurred before the castration, and the victim most likely bled to death. There was also trauma to the back of the head, caused by a fist." Kitch shut the folder and looked up at Detective Finster.

Finster nodded. "I already read the thing, Lieutenant. The killer was screwing the guy, got rough, and eventually beat the guy unconscious."

"With his bare hands?" Kitch asked with disbelief.

"As far as I've heard, the body you found it essentially the same, although the autopsy hasn't been done yet. Our killer is a sadistic son of a bitch. He punched him in the head until he fell unconscious, then cut his dick off."

"That's about it," Kitch confirmed with a nod. "And, whoever it is, they don't seem to fear the law. Both bodies dumped in public neighborhoods, driven there in the same Toyota. Both--"

"Both dead for two-days at the time they were dumped."

"Everyday he dumps a body, he goes and gets another one."

Finster nodded, but held up his finger. "Not sure about that, Lieutenant. Although it smells like a pattern, another fag's gonna have to die tonight to prove us right."

Kitch regarded Finster with eyes drawn nearly closed. "Gay."

Finster looked at Kitch blankly. "I'm sorry? What?"

Kitch shifted his position in his chair. "The preferred term is gay, Detective. Not . . . fag."

Finster's eyes went wide. He stood and turned around. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Um . . . I'm--I didn't mean to . . ." Detective Finster turned back around and examined Kitch's face again. "You're not . . ."

Kitch shook his head. "Hmm-Mmm. My brother is, though."

Finster sat back down. "I'm sorry, Kitch. It's just that . . . well . . . I mean, it must be rough. On your family."

"Well, it is. Yes. And, he just arrived in town today, so it's not exactly easy on me, either." Kitch gestured to the folder on his desk. "Especially with this going on." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He covered his face with his hands and rubbed his palms over his eyes. "Listen, Detective Finster, I really appreciate you coming over here on such short notice tonight, but it has been a long day for me. Maybe we could meet somewhere tomorrow morning, talk this out some more. Do you know where Jordan's is?"

Finster nodded. "The diner on Eleventh? Yes. Marie and I used to go there all the time."

Kitch looked surprised. "Marie? Detective, I didn't know you were married."

"I was. Ten years ago. We had a son and a daughter; Jerome and Elizabeth."

"What happened to them?"

Finster was silent for a moment.

Kitch nodded and held up his palm. "You don't have to--"

"No, no," Finster said, shaking his head. "All three of 'em were killed in a . . . in a gang shootout ten years ago. We were visiting my parents in the Robinson district, and we were on the way back to the wagon, when these . . . punks . . . they just appeared out of nowhere, on either side of the street. They yelled something back and forth at each other, but it was so fast I couldn't understand it. I told Marie and the kids to--I told them to run. Run for the car. And, just as we were starting, they opened fire. They were shooting at each other, but they hit us. I was hit twice in the arm, and once in the leg. The kids both took one in the back . . . right in the heart. Marie . . . she was hit in the head." Finster's head was bowed, his eyes were closed. It was clear that the man was uncomfortable with this subject; he probably didn't like to think about it.

"It must've been terrible . . . losing your family like that. I lost my father not all that long ago, so I have a vague idea how you felt."

"No, with all due respect Lieutenant, you have no clue how I felt. Marie was lying right next to me. Her blood was all over the road . . . on my hands. And, the bastards who killed them didn't even care. They kept right on shooting at each other. I never found out who they were, but I hope they killed each other. . . . Anyway, as soon as I got out of the hospital, I joined the force. Got promoted to detective six years ago."

Kitch regarded Finster with understanding. "That's why you're still a detective. You've been doing this for less time than I have." Kitch stood and offered Finster his hand. "It's been a real good thing meeting you, Detective. I'll see you at Jordan's tomorrow morning."

Finster shook Kitch's hand, and started for the office door. "Let's say eight, eight-thirty?"

"Sounds good."

The detective left Kitch alone. Kitch thought about his brother, and the man who was out there, somewhere in the city. He thought of his brother, and he realized that, as horrible a thing as it was, if the killer struck again, it would be all that much easier to catch him. After almost ten minutes of silence in his office, Kitch stood and left himself.

It was 9:43 p.m. when he started down the front steps of Police Headquarters. He was almost to his car when he thought he heard someone say his name. Feeling more than a little paranoid, he turned around. Nothing. When he turned back around, Batman stood between Kitch and his car.

Kitch thought for a moment that he'd had a heart attack, but finally lowered his hand from his chest. He cleared his throat. "You? What . . . what do you want?"

Batman's long, dark blue cape covered his entire body from shoulders to ankles. The cloak parted in the center, and Batman's blue-gloved hand reached out, holding a manila folder. Kitch warily accepted the folder. "What is this?" he asked, opening the folder and eyeing its contents. There was a computer printout inside.

"That's my autopsy report," Batman said in his low, raspy voice. "on the man you found. His wounds were identical to those of Terrence Cunningham. Clearly the work of the same man." Kitch began reading the report right there. "Not now," Batman said in a commanding tone. "You can read that later."

"What now, then?"

Batman nodded at the folder. "There was one major difference between the victims. Both were castrated, both apparently by a serrated kitchen knife. And, both castrations were sloppy. They were done in a hurry."

Kitch wasn't following. "I'm not hearing the major difference."

There was slight annoyance in Batman's voice as he continued. "As sloppy as the second victim's wound was, it was easily a neater, more careful job than the first. The flesh around the cut wasn't completely torn, as on the first victim. He didn't take his time, but the killer took it slower compared to the first killing."

Kitch nodded. "He's becoming more comfortable with his acts."

Batman nodded once. "Already. The second victim's name was Luke Belmont. He was a twenty-six year-old man, homosexual, just like Terrence Cunningham. Friends said he was a regular at a gay bar downtown, on Quarterhouse Avenue. Aqua."

Kitch regarded the dark clad stranger with suspicion. "How do you know all this? We couldn't have--"

"In the victim's stomach I found traces of liquor, most likely mixed drinks. Since the first victim was a regular at a gay bar, I asked around at a few, with the victim's picture, until I got a name. When I got that far, I ran a computer search and got the personal information." Batman regarded Kitch for a long time, silent, without emotion. "Are you quite satisfied?"

Kitch shut the folder and stuck it underneath his arm. "I'd like to get in my car now, and go home."

"He's doing it by the phonebook, Kitch," Batman said, not moving.

"What?"

"Alvin's, Aqua. He's doing it by alphabetical order. There are twenty-nine bars in Gotham that are regular hang-outs for gay men. He's hit two, the first two in the phonebook. The Brim will be where the killer gets his next victim. I'd almost be certain of that."

Kitch started towards Batman, but stopped before he got too close; the masked man was very intimidating. Totally hidden under the folds of his dark cape, Kitch got the impression that he could spring into action at the slightest provocation. "We only have two murders. That's not even a serial killer. We can't--"

"Yet," Batman interrupted. "And, it isn't presumptuous to try and predict a pattern. He'll go to the Brim next. You had better count on that.

Kitch realized that there was a car speeding towards them up the street. Batman seemed unfazed. "Car," Kitch cautioned.

Batman nodded. "Yes, I know." The vehicle stopped several feet behind the still motionless vigilante. Kitch looked at the car, it was as black as Kitch had ever seen anything, reflecting almost no light at all. Although Kitch couldn't see it very well, he could tell that it was heavily armored. Batman began to walk towards the driver's side of the car, and the top of the car slid forward onto the hood. The Dark Knight climbed into his vehicle, and the roof slid shut, locking securely into place.

Moving with an almost imperceptible low hum as its only sound, the Batmobile rolled effortlessly forward. It seemed almost to float on the asphalt. Kitch didn't realize just how fast the car was moving, but in a few seconds, it was gone, disappeared into the darkness that seemed to have spawned it.

"The Brim," Kitch mumbled as he unlocked and opened his car door. He climbed in behind the wheel and tossed the folder Batman had given him onto the passenger seat. Kitch slammed his door shut, locked it, started the car, and pulled out into the road.

Maybe now he'd be able to go home.

Monday
Apartment of Dick Grayson, 12:02 p.m.

Dick had left the hospital at around 7:00 p.m. last night. It wasn't that he had something compelling him to stay, or that he didn't want to leave; he just wanted to settle down before riding home on his motorcycle. While he was sitting in the waiting room after leaving Heidi, a counselor came in to speak with him. Although he listened to her quietly for almost five minutes, Dick eventually told her to leave, as politely as he could in his current mood. When he got home, Dick went straight to bed. It was only about 7:30, but he fell instantly asleep. Rarely had he felt so drained, and Nightwing didn't make an appearance that night.

Dick was still asleep at 12:02 p.m. on Monday, when Alfred stood in the hallway outside his apartment. Alfred pounded three times more on the door. "Master Dick! Master Dick, open the door!" Alfred stopped, and dug into his front pants pocket. "Oh dear," he muttered as he fumbled with his keys and found the one that fit the lock to the door in front of him. Alfred let himself into Dick's apartment.

"Master Dick!" he called, taking his key and closing the door. "Master Dick! Are you awake?!"

There was a long pause, and Alfred was reluctant to enter the bedroom. Finally, from behind the bedroom door, he heard the barely audible voice of Dick Grayson respond, "Go ahead without me, Alfred. I'm sitting out, today."

Alfred stood silently in the apartment for almost a minute. Finally, he resolved not to leave until Dick came with him. The butler opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. Dick was lying motionless on his bed, on top of the covers, still dressed in the clothes he'd worn the day before. Alfred walked to the side of the bed and stood over Dick, clasping his hands in front of him. "It's time you got up, young man," he said firmly.

Dick looked up silently at Alfred, then rolled over so he wouldn't have to face him. "I'm not fifteen anymore, Alfred. Sorry, but I'm not budging."

Alfred sat down on the edge of the bed, putting his hand on Dick's shoulder. "What's troubling you today, Dick?"

It was a very rare occasion when Alfred didn't preface a name with its formal title. It was always Master Dick, Master Bruce, even Master Harold. Alfred was clearly and openly concerned about his young friend. Dick inhaled, then released the breath loud and slow. He rolled over and put his hands behind his head, looking straight up at the ceiling. "Remember . . . do you remember Heidi Barrell? The woman I saved from Firefly's last arson?"

Alfred nodded once. "I do." His brow was knit with concern now. "Oh dear . . . has something happened?"

Dick continued to stare straight up at the ceiling, fighting to keep the emotion from his face. "She died. She died at the hospital yesterday."

Alfred's mouth came open, his eyes filled with anguished shock. "Oh my . . . I . . . " He cleared his throat, and looked at Dick with uncertainty. "I find I'm at a loss for words . . . I . . . I can only say that I'm very sorry to hear of this. I . . . I didn't realize you felt this strongly about her."

Dick raised his eyebrows, a strange smirk on his face. "I loved her, Alfred. I . . . really think I loved her."

Alfred eyed the younger man with heartbroken concern. "If I recall," he began, inhaling, "Mrs. Barrell was with child. What of that child?"

"Uh . . . the baby is fine as far as I know. I'm not . . . I didn't see it. I was at that hospital all day yesterday, and I didn't go see it."

"Is there a particular reason why you didn't decide to view the child?"

Dick thought a moment, then shook his head. "No. No, there's no reason."

Alfred regarded Dick suspiciously. "Come now," he said in a gentle, fatherly tone, "I don't think that's true. Come now, tell me what stopped you from seeing the child. Perhaps you'll feel better once it's done."

Alfred watched, and Dick was silent. "I've had dreams of that baby," Dick said finally, his voice trailing off into a whisper. He drew in a breath. "I'm not sure if I want to see him."

"Why not?"

Dick swallowed hard, and continued to stare unerringly at the ceiling. "I killed his father."

Alfred's face was fraught with concern, a pained visage looking down at Dick. "Master Dick . . . you did no such thing."

Dick nodded. "I let him die, Alfred. He was just lying there, unconscious while that house burned down around him, and I left him there."

"You saved the lives of both that child and his mother."

"Yes, but that doesn't matter anymore, does it? She's dead, the child is fatherless and motherless. If I had saved them both . . ."

"It would have been suicide to reenter a burning building. You saved two lives, you made the only choice you could have made." Alfred paused, and stared into Dick's eyes. After long moments, Dick returned the stare. "You acted heroically," he said, "And, I am proud of you, just as I have always been."

Dick sighed, his face contorting with grief. He whimpered lightly as tears began to fill his eyes. Alfred placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and sat on the bed until the crying had stopped. That took a little more than twenty minutes. When Dick had quieted, Alfred patted him on the shoulder, then stood. "Come now," he said in a gently commanding tone. "You'll do no one any good lying here." Alfred walked over to Dick's closet, opened it, and found only three shirts hanging there. Dick gave a weak, self-conscious laugh. Alfred took one of the shirts from its hanger and tossed it on the bed to Dick. "Life must go on, Master Dick. And, today, it shall begin for you with a shower, and a change of clothes. Then, we shall go shopping."

Dick looked at Alfred, then sat up and took the shirt in his hand.

Food Mart, 2123 East 75th Street, 1:27 p.m.

Dick lifted the last brown paper bag from the cart into the trunk of the car, then slammed it shut and took the cart to one of the several spots in the parking lot reserved for returning shopping carts. He started back to the car, where Alfred had already started the engine. When Dick was in the car, and his door was shut tight, Alfred shifted the vehicle into gear and started to back out of the parking space.

Both men were thrown back in their seats when Alfred slammed on the brakes. "What happened?" Dick asked, straining his neck to look out the car's back window.

Alfred checked his rear-view mirror. "We were about to be rear-ended by that small vehicle that just passed."

Dick looked at the car that had just sped past; it was stopped at the curb in front of the supermarket. When the red Toyota coup drove away, there was a crumpled mass wrapped in a sheet lying on the sidewalk. "Alfred, drive up to the curb. Do it now." Alfred saw the strange package as well, and piloted the car over beside it. Dick stepped out immediately and knelt down to examine it. He pressed against the sheet, then nodded grimly and looked up at Alfred. "It's a body." There were several people crowding behind Dick, also aware of what was wrapped in the sheet. He turned around and made eye contact with a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties, staring uncomfortably at the wrapped corpse. "You'd better call nine-one-one," he said, then walked over to stand beside Alfred.

Gotham City Police Headquarters, 11:37 p.m.

Detective Finster dropped the coroner's report on Kitch's desk. Kitch picked it up and began reading. "Lemme sum it up for you," Finster offered.

Kitch laid the report open on his desk, then looked up at Finster. "All right."

"Victim's name is Gregg Hilyard, age twenty-six. Homosexual. Died as a result of wounds nearly identical to those of the other victims."

Kitch raised his eyebrows. "Nearly identical?" He flipped through the pages of the report, and found several Polaroids clipped to different pages. One of these was of a bloody wound on the crotch of the victim. Kitch examined it, holding the photo only inches from his face. "He was right . . ." Kitch muttered, then stood and handed the photo over to Finster. "Look, it's clear this time. That wound is much less messy, much neater than the others. I'd almost believe he took his time."

Finster eyed the picture carefully. "A serrated-edge knife was still used. Bruises on the back and back of the head."

"He was a regular at gay bars?"

Finster nodded, and reached down onto Kitch's desk, turning to the third page of the report and pointing to the second typed paragraph. "Place called the Catwalk, on Dorren. Gregg had a . . . companion, I guess, who said that they went there every night usually. Gregg went to dance with this guy he'd met there, and his companion lost sight of him. This was last night. Body was dumped at a grocery store today at around--"

"I know, Detective. I remember."

"Right. Sorry."

Kitch picked up the report and looked at it, although it was a superficial gesture. "He's becoming more daring. There must have been at least a dozen separate witnesses yesterday."

Finster sat down in the chair in front of Kitch's desk. He crossed his legs and folded his arms. "All the victim's are gay men. All the bodies have been dropped at a public or residential place, right out in the open. Think he's sending a message?"

Kitch closed his eyes and remembered something he'd heard the night before. "Maybe he's cleansing himself."

Finster regarded his new partner strangely. "What?"

Kitch shook his head. "Nothing . . . just an idea someone gave me. Maybe our killer is a homosexual himself, and he's ashamed of it. He rapes them, then kills them, maybe to show that his act of rape was wrong. . . . He's clearing his conscience."

Finster tilted his head to the side, his face taking on a thoughtful expression. "That's interesting theory, Lieutenant. So, you don't think he's a psycho for the sake of being a psycho?"

Lieutenant Kitch shook his head firmly. "No. No, I don't." Kitch tapped his finger on the desk several times, squeezing his eyes shut. "The Brim . . . "

"What? What, Kitch?"

"Nothing . . . actually, no, it's not nothing. A friend of mine . . . well, someone I was consulting with on this case last night mentioned that the killer was hitting the bars in A-B-C order. He told me that the next place to be hit would be a spot called The Brim. Apparently, he was wrong."

"Hmmph. Damn shame. If we had some kind of predictable pattern to this craziness, it could go a long way towards catching this lunatic."

Kitch nodded, then ran both hands through his blonde hair. "Right. You're right, Detective. But, it is . . . nearly quarter 'til midnight, and I've been mulling over this with you since this morning. Granted, we've had more to mull over tonight, but . . ."

Finster held his palms up, nodding his head. "I'm a little tired here, too. I'm gonna get out of your office, go home and go to bed."

"Good night. I'll see you tomorrow, Detective Finster."

Finster stood and left the office, closing the door. Kitch gathered up the Polaroids of the autopsy, looked through them quickly, then arranged them into a pile and tapped their edges on the desk. He sighed, massaging his forehead with his right thumb and forefinger.

"Kitch."

His heartrate racing all of a sudden, Kitch stood and turned around to his office window. The blinds were closed; Kitch opened them. Batman was perched on the outside ledge, unmoving. "Good evening," Kitch said sarcastically, walking over to the other wide of his office.

Batman entered the office, standing simply in front of the window, his body wrapped in his dark cloak, much as it had been the night before. "I was wrong about our killer's pattern," he said immediately.

Kitch nodded, "Yup," he answered with a nod. "Yes, you sure were. The victim was apparently a--"

"I've seen the report already."

"Well, that's comforting. Why are you here; just to . . . own up to your being wrong?"

Batman shook his head matter-of-factly. "I wasn't wrong; not totally."

Kitch regarded Batman with surprise, his eyes gleaming. "Really? You said that the killer was hitting gay bars for his victims, and that he's doing it in A-B-C order. That was your pattern, and you were wrong. It wasn't The Brim, it was the Catwalk." Kitch pointed at the report on his desk for emphasis. "No pattern."

Something moved underneath Batman's cloak moved, and his hand emerged, holding a copy of the Gotham Bell Yellow Pages. He dropped it on Kitch's desk.

Kitch looked at the phone book cynically. "Last night it was a folder, now the yellow pages. How do you climb buildings like that with all this crap in there?"

Batman opened the phone book to a dog-eared page, and although it was hard to tell from the cowl, he seemed a bit annoyed at Kitch's remarks. Batman pointed to one page in the yellow pages, one covered with colorful commercial ads.

"Look at this," he told Kitch, running his index finger up and down the page. "We do have a pattern."

After Episode 23, "The Days and Nights of Gotham City" will go on hiatus, much like a TV show. I realize that with the server problems, as well as the snail's pace at which I'm writing stories, it might be the end of summer before I even get to #23. But, no matter when I get done, once Episode 23 is in the proverbial can, I will start on part one of the first of four Elseworlds stories. The Elseworlds section hasn't blossomed as I hoped it would, and I myself haven't contributed to it at all! All that will change.

Episodes 18-23, and four Elseworlds tales. Promise. As soon as I get the damn space!