BATMAN: The New Continuity

Lieutenant Kitch was looking at Batman, who was pointing to a page in the Gotham Bell Yellow Pages. Kitch focused on the phone book and walked forward, standing over the book and reading the page upside down. His eyes drew shut halfway as he recognized what he was looking at.

"These are the bars where the killer is getting his victims from."

Batman nodded. "Notice the order." He spun the book around so that Kitch was looking at it right-side up. "This is the age of political correctness; gay bars have their own section in the yellow pages." He pointed to the top row of ads, the first ad to the left of the page. "Alvin's." Batman's finger moved to the right, touching the next ad. "Aqua." His finger moved to the third and final advertisement in that row. "The Catwalk." Batman held his finger on that ad. "Last night, I told you that the killer was doing it by the phonebook. Originally, I meant it as just another way of saying that he was going alphabetical. But, he's not worrying about that. Literally, he opened the phone book and picked his spots . . ." Batman presented the entire page with a wave of his hand. " . . . as Gotham Bell gave them to him."

Kitch looked at the page, reading over every advertisement printed there. "We've got our pattern," he said, almost in awe of how simple a pattern it was.

"And, according to that pattern, the next victim will come from Cribbies, on Seventeenth Avenue."

Kitch nodded in agreement. "Right. Maybe we can put someone there, try to--"

Batman shook his head vehemently. "Remember, whenever the killer dumps a body, he gets another victim. Whoever the death from Cribbies is, it's too late to prevent that. The first opportunity to catch him will be tomorrow night, most likely. And, that will be at . . . the Double Door, on the corner of Paltrow and Pitt Street."

"I'll talk to the commissioner about putting together an undercover operation. We'll keep a lookout for the red Toyota at the Double Door tomorrow night, see if we can't at least get some license plates."

Batman nodded. "That would help. I'll see what I can do for my part."

Batman turned and stepped one leg outside Kitch's office window. "What would your part be?" Kitch inquired suspiciously.

"I'll see to it," Batman said, not turning around, just disappearing out the window.

The Batmobile was idling a block away, in an alley between the Tarantino Hotel and a nameless apartment building. Batman met Robin on the roof of police headquarters, then they started for the car. "Has Dick spoken to you today?" Batman asked his young protege.

Robin shook his head. "Nope. I think he and Alfred parted ways pretty quick when that body was dropped at the supermarket. Why?"

Batman stopped when they reached the edge of the Tarantino's roof. "I'm going to need Dick's help tomorrow night at the Double Door when we go after the killer. I may have to stop by his apartment tonight."

Robin regarded his partner with surprise. "You? Really?"

Batman nodded. "Is the Redbird nearby? Unless you're done . . ."

Robin turned and pointed to the east. "No, I parked it about a quarter mile that way, in an alley off of Hunt Avenue. I can go it solo from here, if you want."

Batman looked down at the Batmobile. "That might be best right now." He stepped up on the parapet of the roof and looked back at Robin. "I'll see you back at the cave."

"Maybe not," Robin said, scratching the back of his head. "I might just drop off the car and head straight home to bed. I've been feeling a little . . . spent, lately."

"Don't let that happen. Get your sleep; I'll see you tomorrow."

Robin started east. "G'night, partner."

"Good-night, Robin." Batman dropped from the roof down onto the hood of the Batmobile, then jumped down onto the alley. He was in the car and leaving the alley within seconds.

Apartment of Dick Grayson, 11:58 p.m.

Dick was sleeping a lot better tonight. He'd finally decided that he wasn't going to be afraid of his dreams. In a strange way that he hated himself for, he hoped that the body he saw delivered to the door step of the supermarket would develop into a major issue. A serial killer wasn't a good thing, but at least it would take Dick's mind off of what had happened the day before, and would probably haunt him for a long time to come.

He was asleep, more soundly than usual. So sound asleep that his normally astute senses didn't hear the tapping on his window. Even when the tapping got very loud and insistent, Dick merely rolled over, unconsciously ignoring the summons. Gloved fingers cracked the window and creeped in beneath, pulling the window up and open as far as it would go. Batman silently entered the bedroom.

Dick rolled over and opened his eyes almost immediately. He sat up in bed, blinking several times. Looking at Batman, he squinted. It was almost as if the mere presence of the dark figure awakened him. "Sorry to wake you," Batman said softly.

Dick shook his head, dismissing the apology with a wave of his arm. "Not your fault, " he said groggily. "It's sort of an automatic thing, I guess. I dunno, since this is your first time here . . ."

Batman nodded and looked around. "You're right. I've never seen your apartment." Batman took a step away from Dick and looked around the bedroom. "Nice place."

Dick stood and stretched. "Please," he said in the middle of a yawn, "you don't have to go through the motions. If you don't like the place, just say so. I'm a big boy."

"It's a nice place, Dick." Batman took in and let out a labored breath. "Why is it that every conversation we have lately has to turn into a contest? I'm not trying to . . . undermine your adulthood, or whatever you're thinking. It's a nice apartment. That's all I said."

Dick walked around Batman and opened the bedroom door, waving him out into the kitchen. "Want anything to drink?"

"No, thank you," Batman said, shaking his head and moving towards the door. "But, help yourself. I won't mind."

"Nah. I'm never thirsty when I first wake up. I was just trying to be the courteous host." Dick closed his bedroom door halfway, then walked in and hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter. "So, what do you want?"

Batman took a position next to the refrigerator and stood simply, flipping his cape over his shoulders. It was obvious to Dick that he was trying to appear as human as was possible when wearing the Batman suit. "So much for the courteous host."

Dick shrugged. "If there's anything I've learned from living with or around you all these years, it's that there's something to be said for getting to the point. Especially when that point comes in a conversation taking place at . . . midnight."

"You're used to staying up late, Dick."

"Not . . . lately. So, what's up?"

Batman clasped his hands behind his back, walked slowly several feet away from where he'd just been standing, then stood still. "The body you saw dropped at the grocery store earlier today was the third victim of a killer who's been attacking homosexual men for the past several days. He's been taking his victims from city gay bars. I just came from police headquarters, where I was talking with Lieutenant Kitch. I think I've found a pattern to the killings, and I know where he's going to strike next."

Dick nodded, hearing every word. "So, where do I come in?"

"We know what to look for. He's used the same red Toyota to dump his bodies every time, so I think it's safe to assume that he'll be driving it to the bar tomorrow night. The police will most likely find it, run the plates, hopefully come up with an identity for our killer. They'll also probably put people inside. I want you to go in, too. In case the killer is sly enough to sniff out the undercover cops."

"You want me to go into a gay bar, huh?"

"You're the best man for the job."

Dick crossed his arms. "What? I mean . . . what do you mean, 'best man for the job'?"

"It wasn't a personal insult, Dick."

"Well, you must have misspoke. It's just, when I look at myself in the mirror, I don't ever say, 'my, my, Dick, you belong in a gay bar, my friend.'"

"That's not what I meant at all, and you know it. You're just picking at things, although I'm at a loss as to why you always have to be so hostile. Especially to me."

Dick shrugged. "It's just my . . . enigmatic, mysteriously charming personality, I guess. And, I'm not always hostile. Just to you."

Batman looked at the floor, hands on his hips. He looked up sharply, regarding Dick with honesty. He wasn't looking at him as the Batman, but as the man who had befriended a grieving son almost a decade ago. "I need your help, and I'm asking you for it this time, instead of just assuming it'll be there--which it always is. This time, you'll be putting yourself in personal danger, but the payoff could be saving innocent lives and bringing a killer to justice. I can't think of anyone else alive who's help I'd rather have." Batman straightened his arms, balling both hands into fists, then relaxing them. "Will you help me tomorrow night?"

Dick regarded Batman with the same honesty he'd given him, stepping out from behind the barriers of humor and sarcasm he'd been hiding behind in front of Batman for the past several months. Dick looked straight into the Dark Knight's blank, white, shielded eyes, and somehow managed to see a human face. He nodded once, as if there could only be one answer. "I'm there whenever you need me. Tomorrow, I'm wherever you want me to be."

Batman nodded several times. "Thank you."

Dick hopped down from the counter and stood, squaring his shoulders and regarding Batman solemnly. "Thank you."

"Come to the cave tomorrow at around five in the evening. We'll work everything out."

Dick nodded. "Right. Okay." He gestured to the window. "You'd better get going. I was hoping on sleeping like a normal person for at least one more night."

Batman started for the kitchen window, pulled it open and stepped one leg outside onto the fire escape. "Good night, then."

"Night, Bruce."

Batman disappeared into the night, and Dick moped around the kitchen for a few aimless minutes before returning to the bedroom and promptly falling back to sleep.

Tuesday
Gotham City Police Headquarters, 11:23 a.m.

"We've got every uniform on alert, I've let them know that there's another body out there to be found. Hopefully, he hasn't dumped it yet. We might be able to get a license plate on that car he's been driving, get an I-D on him before we have to go after him tonight."

Kitch nodded, looking at Commissioner Gordon. "I've got five officers who volunteered to go undercover tonight at the Double Door. One of them--Robbins--was the cousin of Luke Belmont, one of the victims. I've been thinking maybe that I should find someone else. If the killer were to fall into the trap, start . . . coming onto one of the officers, and that officer happens to be Robbins, we could be looking at something very ugly."

Gordon stood from his desk. "I think we'd better get together, go over the plan."

Kitch stood as well. "Sounds like a good idea. Maybe I could figure out what we're doing."

11:47 a.m.

There were twenty officers assembled in the Special Crimes squad room, including the five who would go undercover, and five officers, along with a ten-man SWAT unit that would occupy the sidewalks and the rooftops surrounding the Double Door that night. Commissioner Gordon stood by the door, and Lieutenant Kitch was in front of a chalk-board diagram, preparing to address the officers.

"Okay, guys, quiet down. Here's what we're doing with this guy. If his pattern holds, and we have no reason to think that it won't, he'll be at the Double Door bar tonight. Now, the Double Door is on Paltrow and Pitt, on that corner." Kitch pointed to the five officers who sat closest to him. "You guys will be inside." He then pointed to the other five officers, who were seated at various places around the squad room. "You five will be undercover, in the pharmacy across the street, acting drunk outside, being distinctly un-coplike. When you men see that red Toyota pull up, when you see that driver, call into your friends inside, give them the description, what he's wearing, what color he is, what kind of hair he's got. Then, you guys inside'll go to work." Kitch looked to the back of the room, where the SWAT team was lined up along the wall. "Swat, you will be divided in half. Five of you will be on rooftops, watching for our I-D'ed killer to walk out, hopefully with one of the undercover officers. He'll get in his car, drive off, and that's when the other half of Swat kicks in. You follow him until he gets wherever he's going. Remember, wait for him to get there. These murders involved beating, and rape, and castration. All of that can't be accomplished in a running car."

Kitch looked around at everyone. Most of them nodded, their arms folded. "All right. Now, you five who volunteered undercover might have to spend a few hours inside of a big city gay bar. Try not to . . ." Kitch seemed at a loss. "Get engaged," offered one of the SWAT members. This brought a light chuckle to most lips.

Kitch pointed at him. "Right, get engaged. Little levity there. We'll meet back here at six this evening, go over the game plan one last time. Then we'll catch this bastard."

Kitch looked over at Gordon, who nodded.

Gotham City Morgue, 3:34 p.m.

Dr. Lance Reynolds led Commissioner Gordon and Lieutenant Kitch into the room at the end of the hall. Inside was a body, all sewn up following the autopsy. "His name is Michael Hose. They found him on the sidewalk in front of an apartment complex about two and a half hours ago. Since he's the victim of a serial killer, we gave him top priority."

"He was wrapped and naked in a sheet, like the others?" Kitch asked, hands shoved into his pockets.

Dr. Reynolds nodded. "Mmm-hmm. And, that's not all. When Officer Dickson spoke with Michael's roommate, he found this out." The doctor produced a legal pad from his lab coat and handed it over to Commissioner Gordon, who glanced at it, then passed it to Kitch. "It's a report that states that Mr. Hose was going out with his roommate to a club downtown called Cribbies. I believe that's what your pattern that you established predicted."

Kitch opened up the legal pad and read quickly over the officer's report. "Yes," he said abruptly, looking up. "Yes, that's what was predicted."

Commissioner Gordon cleared his throat and nodded towards the victim's crotch. "He died the same as the others? Castration?"

Dr. Reynolds nodded. "Yes. Uh, Lieutenant, you asked me to make special note of the genital wounds. I found that, when comparing this castration to those of the previous murders, this one is by far . . ." Dr. Reynolds turned around and picked up a stack of photographs paper clipped together. He passed them to Kitch. " . . . the neatest of all. Look at the top photograph. The others are of the previous victims."

Kitch held up the first photograph. Commissioner Gordon stepped in behind him and viewed it as well. "Hell, yes," Gordon whispered. "Look at that, you're damn right he was neater this time."

Kitch agreed, "He took his time with this one. He was comfortable with the act."

"You bet he was. He took pride in this one, he's developing a sense of pride in his work. He isn't just killing homosexuals anymore, he's starting to enjoy it."

Kitch handed the photographs back to Dr. Reynolds. "We've got to catch this guy. Tonight. This can't go on, especially after this. We don't just have a disturbed psychopath anymore; we have someone who likes being what he is."

Commissioner Gordon put his hand on Kitch's shoulder, then started for the door. "Thank you, Dr. Reynolds," Kitch said as he and Gordon left the room and started down the hall.

"How do you like working with Detective Finster?" Gordon asked as they made their way slowly towards the elevator.

"He's . . . an interesting man. More than I knew. There hasn't really been a tremendous opportunity here for down and dirty detective work, so I can't get to know him in that respect. Most of these last few days has been just trying to predict a pattern. Now that we've got that, it should be all downhill from here."

Gordon nodded. "We can only hope. Hopefully, our man will continue to be as blind and stupid as he's been in the last few days."

"I'm not sure if he's being unconsciously stupid, Jim," Kitch offered as they reached the elevator. He pressed the down-button. "He's trying to send us a message about something, and he wants to make sure we know that it's always been him."

Gordon and Kitch stepped into the elevator. "You might have a good point there, Lieutenant. But, tell me, have you even considered what might happen if you don't get your man tonight?"

Kitch shook his head. "That isn't even a consideration. We are going to catch him tonight. He's playing right into our hands."

Gordon smiled, almost laughed. "I know how you feel, Kitch. But . . . and, maybe I'm being too blunt here--it's not very intelligent to have that sort of confidence. He might be playing towards us now, but we shouldn't assume that we know him. We won't know him until we get him in the box and you and Finster have your way with him . . . so to speak."

"So . . . how should I feel about tonight?"

Gordon shrugged. "Confident, certainly. Confident that the G-C-P-D can get the better of this maniac. But, that confidence can't be absolute. You have to allow yourself to look beyond, to say, 'All right, if this doesn't work, what are we going to do then?'" The elevator reached the ground floor, and both men stepped out. "So, where're you headed?" Gordon asked as he and Kitch started walking towards the front entrance.

Kitch brought up his arm and checked his wristwatch. "I'm meeting Darren at Uma's for either a late lunch or an early dinner. We haven't talked but over the phone since he got here."

Gordon nodded. "Family. Sounds good. I think I'll head back to the office."

Kitch opened up his car door and watched Gordon walk towards his old, beaten-up Cadillac. "Have you called Sarah yet?"

The commissioner stopped at his car door, fishing his keys out of his pocket. "Well, it's been two days; I assume I'll have to eventually." Gordon climbed into the weathered old car, started up the engine for what must have been the three-thousandth time, and drove off.

Kitch watched him go, then left himself. He had all of ten minutes to get to Uma's for lunch with his brother.

Uma's, 2343 Asner Avenue, 4:02 p.m.

Kitch walked into the restaurant and immediately spotted Darren sitting listless at a table near the center of the room. Ignoring the "Please Wait to be Seated" sign, he started towards the table. A waitress was rushing towards him. "Sir! You have to be seated!"

Darren stood at his chair, and Kitch held up his hand. "It's all right," he said, pointing at his brother. "I'm with him." The waitress slowed, stopped, and nodded. Kitch sat down. "You can take our order, though."

"No," she said with a shake of her head, "that's not my table."

Shrugging, Kitch slipped his overcoat off his shoulders and hung it over the back of his chair. "Sorry I'm a little late. How long have you been here?"

Darren sat back in his chair and regarded his brother passively. "Oh, not long. Ten minutes, I suppose."

"Well, I'm sorry. Commissioner Gordon and I wanted to get a look at the latest victim of a--"

"Is it a serial killer? I mean, officially?"

"Have they been talking about it on the news? I haven't even turned on a television for the last few days."

"Oh, yes, it's all over the eleven o'clock. I think it was their top story last night. Is it true that all the victims are gay?"

A waitress walked up and delivered two glasses of water. "I'll be back in a minute to take your orders," she said, then promptly left.

Kitch immediately took the water and sipped. "I don't know what the hold-up is," he said, "this place is pretty dead isn't it?"

Darren cocked his head to the side. "You didn't answer my question, Sammy."

"No," Kitch said, setting the glass of water back on the table. "I didn't."

Darren watched his brother expectantly. "Well . . . ?"

Kitch cleared his throat. "Yes, Darren. The victims have all been gay men. But, I really don't want to get into a discussion of a case. Not this one, especially."

"Why not?"

"Because it just isn't done, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being security and confidential information."

Darren's eyes widened, and a smile spread over his face. "Oh, come on, brother! You're a cop, not a C-I-A agent! What, have you discovered that these people have been killed by . . . dark-skinned Arabian terrorists?"

Kitch grinned drolly. "Yeah, all right, you've figured it out. Just keep a lid on it or I'll have to kill you." The brothers laughed together for a few moments, and then there was silence.

"Are they cute?" Darren asked. Kitch regarded him strangely. "The Arabic terrorists."

Kitch rolled his eyes and looked at his brother with annoyance. "Don't do that, Darren. Please."

Darren grinned and shrugged. "Do what?"

Kitch spotted the waitress approaching the table. "Act gay. Now quiet."

The short, thin, blonde waitress stood between Kitch and his brother, holding her paper pad in front of her. "Hi. Sorry we took so long, there's some things happening in the kitchen. Can I take your order?"

Darren lifted the menu up from the corner of the table and looked over it briefly. "I'll have the . . . turkey club, with a side of creamed lettuce. And . . . oh, just some more water to drink."

"All right," said the waitress, scribbling down the order. She turned to Lieutenant Kitch. "and you?"

"The chicken dinner, with filling and gravy. And, just iced tea to drink. No lemon." he answered matter-of-factly, shutting his menu and presenting it to her. The waitress took the menus.

"Okay, it'll be about twenty minutes," she said as she started back to the kitchen.

Darren clasped his hands together and rested his chin on them, propping his elbows up on the table. "Now, about my acting gay."

Kitch shook his head. "Darren, you know I don't feel comfortable with your . . . your lifestyle choice."

"It's not a choice," Darren corrected. "I didn't decide to become gay; I was born homosexual. And, I don't act any way."

"I just meant that . . . you were flaunting it there. I didn't mean to offend you."

"It's an extremely prejudiced statement," Darren said calmly. "If you can talk about women with your straight friends, why can't I express attraction towards a man?"

"Around your gay friends. I'm not gay, Darren. I'm your brother, and I love you, but I'm straight, and I don't like--don't feel comfortable with thoughts like that. I mean, I wouldn't talk about women to . . . Detective Montoya, would I?"

"I don't know. Who's Detective Montoya?"

"Reneé Montoya, she's a cop in my Special Crimes unit."

Darren raised his eyebrows. "Do you find her attractive?"

Kitch opened his mouth to speak, the stopped, letting out a light, uncomfortable chuckle. "She . . . is a beautiful woman, yes. But if you're thinking--"

"You must be lonely here in Gotham City, brother. How long has it been since you had a relationship with a woman?"

Kitch took a deep breath and let it out, regarding his brother pensively. "You know that being a cop precludes any kind of social life I could have. The job comes first, it always has. That's why I'm the youngest Lieutenant on the force."

"But, you're not a cop anymore, Sammy. I mean . . . you are, but not really. As I understand it, you just deal with officers, you're not regularly out on the streets."

Kitch held up his index finger in contradiction. "I don't work cases personally anymore. I still have to examine crime scenes, assign detectives to cases, decide when a case needs to go from Special Crimes to Robbery, or if I want to accept a case from another section. It's still a lot of work."

"Why are you working this case?"

Kitch looked at his brother; Darren was looking directly back at him, straight into his eyes, an unwavering gaze. "Because I found one of the victims myself. I saw the guy drop off the body of Luke Belmont. Don't start thinking that it's more personal than that. It's not."

Darren Kitch continued to look straight at his brother. "Are you sure?"

Kitch exhaled loudly. "Look, maybe I just feel that no one else is better equipped to handle this one than me. Maybe I didn't feel like letting . . . Bullock and Bock take this one."

"Doesn't that seem a little arrogant to you? I mean . . . if that's true."

"Well . . . no, no that's not arrogance. It's not something I'm bragging on; it's just an observation I'm making. I feel more comfortable handling this case myself. If I screw up on something this important, then the buck stops right here. It makes my job as a Lieutenant easier."

Darren started to grin, but stifled it. "Is there anything you can't rationalize?"

Kitch picked up his water and drank again. "No," he said, putting the glass back down. "No, there's nothing I can't explain away. It's my most unique and useful talent."

"Nothing personal about this one?"

"No. Nothing, and please don't ask me that question again."

Darren looked off to the side and shrugged with his eyes. "Okay, fine. I won't talk about that anymore. It's dinner with brother, afterall." Kitch shook his head and rolled his eyes. "So," Darren began, tentatively sipping his own glass of water, "what are you doing tonight?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Kitch answered immediately, almost before Darren was done speaking, as if the question was anticipated. Lieutenant Samuel Kitch, cocked and loaded. "Why, Darren?" he asked, clearing his throat, "what are your plans for this evening?"

Darren shrugged--with his shoulders this time. "Probably just . . . sit in my hotel room and watch my complimentary cable. I might even chip in the extra cash for a night of H-B-O if I'm feeling a little saucy."

"Just a dull night inside? Doesn't sound like you, Darren."

"Well, I've only been in town a few days. That's not a whole lot of time to establish a base of friends, now is it? I've only met one guy so far . . ."

Kitch had been about to take another sip of water, but he stopped and regarded his brother suddenly. "What do you mean . . . 'met a guy?'"

"I mean I went to the grocery store, and I met a guy there. We sort of had an instant rapport."

Kitch looked at Darren with stone silence for over a minute, then nodded quietly and looked down at the table. "So . . . you met a guy at the grocery store. You're staying at a hotel; why were you in a grocery store in the first place?"

"You know those chocolate Sweet Escapes wafers that Hershey's sells? Well, I had a craving and room service didn't keep them. Michael was in the--"

"Michael?"

"--was in the candy aisle too, only he was looking for one of those cookies and creme bars. He gave me his phone number! Wanna see?"

Kitch held up both hands, palms up in front of him. "No. No, I don't. Just . . . I hope you have fun in your hotel tonight. I plan on trying to stop a serial killer; I have now answered your question from a few minutes ago."

Darren looked at his brother and smiled. "I guess vague is better than nothing. Especially with you."

Kitch smiled with phony sweetness at his brother. "I'll try not to take that as an insult, even though it wasn't meant by one; it's probably unconscious after all these years." Kitch leaned back in his chair, surveying the dining room. He began drumming his fingers restlessly on the tabletop. "What's taking so long with that food?"

His brother shrugged. "Don't look at me," Darren said, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. "I ordered a sandwich."

Beneath Wayne Manor, 5:03 p.m.

Bruce was already discussing wardrobe options with Alfred in the vault when Dick arrived. The two men were standing at the table in the back of the large square room, looking over two outfits that Alfred had assembled with Dick's "assignment" in mind.

Bruce rubbed his chin. "I like this one on the left, but I think the sequins on the sleeves would make him appear too flamboyant. He shouldn't draw that much attention to himself."

Alfred, arms crossed, nodded. "Yes, well I wish you'd have said something of this to me before I sewed the costumes. I wouldn't have had to attach all those bloody sequins in the first place."

Dick stepped up and leaned casually against the iron door frame. He cleared his throat, and both Bruce and Alfred turned around. "It's a regular Wigstock in here, isn't it?" he said, smiling wryly.

Bruce nodded in his direction, then picked up the outfit with the sequined sleeves and held it up in front of him, holding out the left sleeve. "What do you think about this one for tonight? Imagine it without the sequins."

Dick tried to hold himself together, but broke into hysterical laughter. He looked up and Bruce was eyeing him strangely. "I'm sorry, Bruce . . . I just never, ever in my wildest imagination thought I'd hear you ask me that question!" Dick chuckled again, then cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "Sorry."

"Good, because I'm trying to be serious in light of the situation," Bruce said in a chiding tone. "Now, you'll have to wear one of these--"

Dick held up his hand. "Why can't I just dress close to normal? I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but all gay guys aren't . . . aren't attention-grabbing fashion disasters are they?"

Bruce shrugged. "No, I suppose not. But, what happened to 'when I look in the mirror . . .?'"

"Just trying to be helpful, that's all. Of all people, I'd think you would want to be realistic, Bruce."

Bruce brushed past Dick and walked quickly out of the vault and into the expanse of the cave. "Wait there a second," he called back. Dick heard his footsteps for a few moments more, then they stopped. Dick heard his feet shuffle around briefly on the stone floor, then they started back in his direction. Bruce returned to the vault carrying a cut-out newspaper photo in one hand, and an empty file folder in the other. He handed the picture to Dick. "See that?" The photo depicted a large crowd outside the newly opened Double Door bar; it had been taken over two years ago. The crowd of people consisted of young men, most appearing to be in their early to mid twenties, entering the building. Most were looking towards the camera, some were screaming, smiling, or otherwise gesturing with exaggeration towards whoever had taken the picture. Every one of the young men in the crowd was wearing a colorful, flamboyant outfit, or sparkling facial make-up, or rings in their ears, nose, lip, cheek, and so on. It looked like almost half sported shaved heads.

Dick handed the picture back to Bruce. "Maybe all gay men aren't flamboyant . . . fashion disasters, as you put it. But, the regulars where you're going are. And, you have to fit in."

"Why not the sequins then?" Alfred demanded, arms still crossed.

"I want Dick to appear colorful, but not overly so. I don't want him to stand out, I want him to fit in."

Dick took the picture back from Bruce and gave it another cursory glance. "Well, I'll fit in as well as I can," he said, "But I'm not shaving my head."

"That's all I ask," Bruce said, turning back to the colorful outfits Alfred had put together. "Now . . . I suppose 'choose your poison' would be an appropriate phrase."

Dick looked at both outfits, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Poison? Nah . . . doing this won't kill me! Unless I see someone I know there. But, no one I know would be in a place like that. Would they?" Dick's mind began to replay every conversation he'd ever had with a person in his life, from his parents, his precious few childhood acquaintances, Bruce, Alfred, the Titans, Tim . . . had he ever known a gay person? Not that I know of, Dick answered himself silently. Of course, I really don't think I'm missing a whole lot . . .

"Um, I'd hate for Alfred to have to take off all those sequins," Dick said. He pointed to the other set of clothes, consisting of a bright green sleeveless wrap-around tunic, and tight-fitting black stretch pants. "I'll wear that one." He looked at it silently for a long few moments, then ran his hand through his black hair. "God, these clothes could make any man seem gay. Dean Cain would look gay in this outfit."

Bruce gave Dick an uncertain look. "Dean Cain? Don't I've ever heard of him. A friend of yours?"

Dick waved his hand in a dismissory gesture. "Nah, no one important. Some guy on television, I think. It just sounded like a good reference, that's all."

"Ah." Bruce took the outfit Dick had selected and handed it to him. "There you go. Alfred and I will leave you alone for a few minutes."

Bruce started out, and Alfred followed, a smile nearly suppressed but still evident on his lips. Dick pulled off his shirt and started to unfasten his belt when he looked at the black stretch pants; they didn't look very big. "Hey, Bruce?" Dick called.

"Yes? What is it?"

Dick held up the pants in front of him, and yelled back, "I might need a little more than a few minutes."

"However long you need, but don't waste any time. I'd like to get you out there a few minutes before the police arrive and set up shop."

Bruce waited for a response, but didn't hear one. He walked over and sat down in front of the computer console. Alfred stood behind him, hands clasped. "What is it you're looking for, sir?" Alfred asked. Bruce's fingers were tapping the keys on the console faster than Alfred could follow. Both Tim and Dick had often suggested that Bruce hook up a mouse device to the Cave's computer, that it would make navigating through the system much easier. Bruce would always respond with something like, "Using the function keys is better for security," or, "It keeps my typing skills sharpened. A mouse would make me sloppy."

A window opened on the large central monitor. The window was filled with black and white static. Alfred read the title bar of the program, VidNet v. 1.45 - [F:\VIDNET\PARTYTOWN\CAM0223.VNT]. "You're monitoring the video network?"

Bruce nodded, continuing to type, opening the File menu in the program window. "The camera I set up on the eastern side of the Wayne Cosmetics building should be able to see the front of the Double Door relatively clear. If so, I'll be able to monitor it constantly, both here and when I'm on my way there tonight. I'll be able to see exactly when the police arrive."

"You're confident you'll be able to see through their disguises?"

Bruce tilted his head to the side slightly. "One thing the Gotham City Police Department has a shortage on is imagination; their undercover cops are always dressed in the same ways in these situations. There's always at least one drunk, one bouncer outside the club, a bartender, and a few who are trying pitifully to fit in with the regulars. And, of course, Swat will probably line the roof just to add a sense of security."

Alfred seemed surprised at Bruce's statement. "You don't believe involvement of the Swat team would be helpful in this instance?"

Bruce shook his head. "I don't. Swat is perfect when brute force is a solution. They'll most likely be positioned outside the front of the Double Door. That's outside the front of a crowded nightspot. If the killer is somehow flushed out and makes a run for it, Gordon had better hope he's got some crack shots up there, or a lot of innocent people could be hurt. In this instance, Swat isn't just unnecessary, it's involvement could be a tremendous liability."

The static that filled the VidNet window on the monitor faded away as the remote camera activated. A crystal clear image of the Partytown district as seen from the eastern side of the roof of the Wayne Cosmetics building resolved into view. Bruce began typing again, and the camera began zooming in on one particular area of Partytown. In a moment, the neon lighted front entrance of the Double Door came into an uncertain, grainy focus. Bruce squinted slightly at the image, then began fiddling with the image settings, trying to make the picture as clear as possible. After a moment, he stopped and exhaled. "I think that's as clear as I can make it. The front of the club is always lit after dark, so this should be all right."

Alfred put his hands on Bruce's shoulders and leaned forward, squinting at the image. "Yes, I say it looks fine, although I still prefer my television."

Both Bruce and Alfred turned at the sound of faint, reluctant footsteps; Dick stood before them.

"Well?" he asked in a voice that was almost agonized with embarrassment.

Bruce looked him thoroughly up and down. "You look . . . hmm. Alfred, how does he look?"

Alfred stepped away from Bruce, clasped his hands in front of him, and regarded Dick through sly, half-closed eyes. "He looks like the exact opposite of the man I envisioned that boy who first entered this house nine years ago would grow to become. Very authentic." Alfred laughed in spite of himself, then stifled it suddenly.

Bruce swiveled his chair around to face Dick fully, and crossed his arms. "Well, Dick? What do you think?"

Dick shrugged, looking down at himself. He grinned and shook his head ridiculously. "I was just thinking about how much I miss my old Robin costume right now."

The Double Door, the corner of Paltrow and Pitt Street, 7:11 p.m.

Batman hung against the side of the Wayne Cosmetics building a mile and a half away, polyfiber cord wrapped tightly around his left arm, his right hand holding a miniaturized pair of binoculars to his masked eyes. The undercover police officers had begun to filter in just under thirty minutes ago, when the nightly crowd of regulars started to arrive. SWAT was lined up on their stomachs along the roof of the building across the street from the club, all eyes focused on the door. Batman wondered if they had even the slightest idea what they were aiming for.

7:23 p.m.

Lieutenant Kitch and Detective Finster were sitting in the apartment of one George Telling, who lived in the building across from the Double Door. Kitch was lying back on the couch, looking sideways at Finster, who was sitting in front of the window, looking through the curtains with a camera, studying every new face he saw, every car that pulled up to the entrance through the telephoto lens. "Anything?" Kitch asked with more than a hint of boredom in his voice.

Finster shook his head. "Not a thing. Look, Lieutenant, when I see a red Toyota, I'll let you know."

"Right. Okay. Sorry to bother you."

Finster raised his head and looked back at Kitch. "It wasn't really a problem. Hope I didn't . . ."

Kitch pointed at the window, then at the camera.

"Right," Finster muttered, turning back to the camera and resuming his surveillance.

George Telling stepped into the room, peering around at Kitch. "Find your man yet? Any sign of that Mazda?"

Kitch held his arms out in front of him and strained as he sat up. He planted both feet on the floor and turned to look at his understandably reluctant host. "We're looking for a red Toyota, George. And, no, we haven't found it yet."

George Telling was a Black man of average height, forty-nine years old, just beginning to gray around the temples. He was divorced, had no children, and had been working nineteen years strong at the Gotham Public Transit station on Braugher Avenue. He seemed a little uneasy in the presence of the two men in his living room, whom he'd just met a few hours ago. "So, you guys feel like coffee? I just made a pot in the kitchen."

Kitch stood and stretched, his arms reached over his head. "Sure, George. Thanks, I'll have some."

George turned and started for the kitchen, then stopped and looked back. "Detective?"

Finster didn't look away from the camera and it's view of the street below. "Decaf?"

George shook his head. "Oh, no. No, it's not decaf. Sorry."

"Well then I won't have any. Caffeine makes me too jittery. If you expect me to watch this door all night, I need decaf."

Kitch looked at George Telling and nodded towards the kitchen. "Bring us two cups." He put his hands in his pockets and turned to Detective Finster. "Have a cup of coffee, Finster. I'll take over until you get over your coffee-induced nervous episode."

Detective Finster stood and stepped away from the camera. Kitch stood tall on his tip-toes, stretching his legs, then taking the seat his partner had occupied a moment ago and looking through the telephoto lens at the front of the Double Door club. Finster started into the kitchen with George. "I'll give you a hand with that coffee."

George seemed indifferent to the offer. "Oh, all right. If you want."

7:49 p.m.

Inside the Double Door was Dick Grayson.

He was doing what he could, surveying the room, relying on his years of training, his knowledge of people, his near-surefire instincts. At the same time, he was doing his best to mentally distract himself from the extreme discomfort of his situation. He was, afterall, surrounded by no less than one-hundred-fifty gay men, all of them out for a good time, one of them possibly a serial killer. While he was trying to distract himself from his current situation, he was virtually unaware of how this awkward circumstance was taking his mind from the tremendous grief he felt after the devastating turn of events on Sunday; a grief that still tugged at his consciousness; a grief that, while still powerful, was slowly beginning to recede.

Despite being freed temporarily from his grief, Dick found that he still felt like a child. This time, though, the feelings weren't the shock and confusion of the sudden realization of mortality, but the uncanny feeling that a young boy felt when he knew he was in a situation that he didn't like at all, and from which there was no immediate escape. Like being trapped hiding in your parent's bedroom while they're having sex, Dick suddenly thought. He then silently thanked God that in his youth he'd never found himself in that situation, although it might have helped to prepare him for this current predicament.

Dick had bought himself a drink at the bar, then found a nice quiet table near the back, where he could sit and watch the room without drawing too much attention to himself. In his right ear was a miniaturized radio receiver, by which Batman would let him know when the man driving the red Toyota arrived. So far, the earpiece had been silent, and Dick had tried to remain sharp in case the killer decided to forego his usual transportation.

Although it was harder to tell than usual, Dick hadn't seen anyone act suspiciously, although it was easy to spot the undercover officers. He hoped that the killer, whoever he was, wasn't as astute at spotting undercover cops as Dick was, otherwise the entire operation was worthless. Most of the cops were either overdressed or underdressed, and they all looked like they were casing the room instead of having a good time.

Realizing somewhat uncomfortably that he was doing a better job of being gay than the rest of the straight people in the place, Dick finished his drink, stood and started for the bar. Most of the other men there were either dancing or sitting down and carrying on some intimate conversations with each other, so they weren't paying attention to him. He set his glass on the bar and knocked on the wooden surface three times. The bartender heard him and acknowledged him with a nod while he poured a drink for another patron. "What'll it be?" he asked, taking Dick's glass and pulling it to himself.

"Um . . . just another kiwi wine cooler, I guess."

The bartender opened a cooler at his knees behind the bar and opened another bottle of wine cooler, pouring its contents into the empty glass. "You seem a little, you know, bored," the bartender said as he handed Dick his drink. "You here with anyone?"

Dick took up his glass and sipped. "Nope," he said, shaking his head. "I thought I'd come and see what all the fuss was about. I mean, like, all of my friends were raving about this place." Dick took a look around at the people dancing and talking in this place. "I've never been this outgoing before, though."

"Well, you know," the bartender said, folding his arms and leaning forward on the bar, "I was skeptical at first myself. I thought it was too flashy. I've always had the opinion that, you know, we should be a little more, um, toned down. Maybe a little lower-profile."

Dick took another drink. "Yeah," he said as he started back for his seat. "Yeah, I agree with you." He sat back down in the table at the back and resumed his subtle yet thorough observation of the room. Dick spotted the tall man making his way through the crowd to the table. The man was smiling, but when he was several feet from Dick's table he stopped. He squinted briefly, tilted his head, and gave Dick the most peculiar, piercing look. Then, whoever it was turned and blended back into the crowd.

7:55 p.m.

In George Telling's apartment, Kitch snapped a photo. He looked about the camera, then back through the lens and took another shot. "Finster! Get in here!" he yelled. "Dammit." Kitch swiveled the camera on its tripod and snapped another photo. "Goddammit."

Detective Finster rushed in from the kitchen. "What? Where is he?"

Kitch stood from the camera and turned around, grabbing the walkie-talkie that sat on the coffee table. "This is Lieutenant Kitch to all units; our man was inside. Repeat, he was inside the Double Door. I've spotted the red Toyota moving south on Paltrow Street, just came around the corner."

Finster stepped forward and looked out the window. "You saw him? The car? Goddammit!!"

Kitch nodded and motioned for silence. The walkie-talkie crackled to life. "--Kitch, this is Sergeant Braddock on the roof. We got him."

Kitch rolled his eyes and said angrily into the radio, "Define 'got him', Sergeant."

The walkie-talkie crackled. "--e can see him, we've got him in our sights. Take him out?"

"No, Braddock." Kitch switched channels on the radio and said, "All units, this is Lieutenant Kitch. Our man is moving south on Paltrow. Keep with him. I repeat, follow him and pull him over. He should be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Proceed with necessary caution."

Kitch switched off the walkie-talkie and tossed it hard into the soft cushions of George Telling's couch. It seemed like everything was out of his hands now.

7:59 p.m.

Batman was squatting low on the roof of the Double Door.

He flipped open the plate on his belt immediately to the right of the center plate over the buckle, accessing the controls of his radio equipment. He input a six-digit code into the number pad, then pressed the long black button along the bottom of the pad. He heard brief static in his ear. "Dick."

There was silence, then a hushed answer. "Yeah?"

"Come on out. Our man's gone; the Toyota's heading south on Paltrow. I'm going after it."

"I think I saw him," Dick said. "I think he walked right up to me, then he just stopped and left."

"Why? Did you say anything to him?"

"Not a word. I only looked at him for . . . just for a moment. He gave me this really harsh, piercing stare."

Batman nodded and stood. "Understood. We'll meet up later. For now, get out of there and change into costume. Robin's waiting for you in the Redbird. Call him on the radio, he'll come and pick you up."

"Right," Dick said. "See you later tonight." The radio went silent. Batman closed the channel, then shut the panel on his belt. He walked to the edge of the roof, then jumped effortlessly over to the next building. Batman ran to the back of this roof, stepped off and fell two stories to the asphalt below, landing easily. The Batmobile was backed into a tight space between the 9th Avenue parking garage and an abandoned building that, in days gone by, had been the Denmark Hotel. Batman opened the panel on his belt immediately to the left of his buckle-plate and entered a ten-digit code that unlocked the imposing vehicle, which could barely be seen even in the early minutes of twilight. Batman slid back the roof canopy and climbed in behind the wheel.

Once the car was shut and locked, he reached behind his head and pulled the safety belts over his head. The belts came over his head to hold his shoulders, meeting at a single buckle in a V-shape. Another strap came up between his legs, and the two buckled together at his midsection.

The sleek black car pulled out of its hiding place and into the narrow alleyway that wound around quietly through Gotham's Partytown district. There was no way to track the red Toyota directly, but Batman could easily eavesdrop on the police signals, and--from what they told each other--get a fairly good idea of the car's direction.

He switched on the radio.

Moving East on Snook Avenue, 8:06 p.m.

Officer Rob Finch had been a cop for going on four years. He'd moved here from Bangor, Maine, but he couldn't explain why exactly. He knew it sounded corny, but he'd been called to this city. He felt he was serving some preordained purpose, but of course he had no idea what that purpose was. It was amazing how much trauma the words "I'm moving to Gotham" could cause in an otherwise calm and understanding parent.

Now, nearly four years after he graduated from the academy, Officer Finch was pacing a red Toyota coupe through the streets of Gotham City. There was most likely a killer driving this Toyota coupe, from all indications a very violent one. Rob had been involved in many, many volatile situations during his relatively short career in law enforcement, but he'd never had to face a killer of men one to one, eye to eye. He hoped he wouldn't have to this time, but that, of course, was an irrational hope.

Officer Finch picked up the handpiece of his police radio. "This is C Four. I am just entering the nine-hundred block, driving east on Snook. The red Toyota is right in front of me. Please confirm, are orders to pull the vehicle over and then proceed according to standard practice?"

The voice of Lieutenant Kitch came over the speaker. "Confirm for me Officer; is the license plate of the car you're following Peter Calvin Reggie David five seven five?"

Finch looked at the car's license plate and nodded to himself as he replied. "Confirmed, Lieutenant."

"Pull him over, ask for I-D. We're looking for . . . Thomas Jonathan Lucas. Thomas--Jonathan--Lucas. Notify me immediately if that's the guy behind the wheel up there."

"Roger, sir. Out."

Officer Finch switched on his lights and siren, and the red Toyota obediently slowed down and found a spot along the side of the road to pull off. Finch pulled in ten feet behind him and opened his door. Before stepping out, he reached down to his gun and unsnapped the leather band that kept the weapon securely in its holster.

When Finch was approximately halfway between to the idling Toyota, the car roared back to life and lunged forward, pulling back into the street and taking off towards the intersection visible half a block ahead. Instinctively, Finch had run after the fleeing vehicle, stopping after a few steps, realizing that he wouldn't be able to catch him that way. He ran back to his squad car, leapt back in behind the wheel and sped off after the car. "This is C Four," he yelled excitedly into the radio. "The suspect got away. I was approaching the vehicle and he just took off."

The now highly annoyed voice of Lieutenant Kitch shot back over the speaker. "Can you still see the car?"

"Yes, sir. I'm in pursuit. He's approaching the intersection of Snook and Jones, looks like he'll take it straight through."

Just as Finch said that, the red car charged into the intersection, glancing the side of another car heading in the opposite direction. The Toyota turned suddenly when it was more than halfway through the intersection and it looked as though it would go left and head north on Jones Street. Instead, the car went with the turn and spun almost completely around, heading off south on Jones just as Finch was approaching. Officer Finch spun the steering wheel hard to the right, but it was too late. He ran up on the curb. Undaunted, he drove several feet with only two tires on the road, then managed to turn back onto the street completely, and resumed his pursuit, pushing the car up to seventy miles per hour almost immediately and still lagging far behind the speeding Toyota.

"This is C Four. The suspect is now headed south on Jones Street. I'm still in pursuit, but he's going at least eighty-five, and he managed to conjure up quite a head start for himself."

Moving East on Siegel Avenue, 8:09 p.m.

Batman pushed the car up to eighty miles an hour. Siegel Avenue intersected Jones Street nearly three blocks ahead, and if he hurried, he could cut off the fleeing Toyota before it got any further. The street wasn't one of Gotham's busier routes, so there was almost nothing standing between the Batmobile and where it was going. The digital speedometer display now registered at 87 miles per hour.

The intersection with Jones Street was visible for an instant as Batman piloted his vehicle over a hill. He applied the brakes and slowed to 50 as he approached the intersection. "He's approaching the intersection with Siegel," came the voice of an officer over the police band radio. "Not slowing down, he doesn't have a lot of room. He's heading straight through."

Batman pulled his car to a stop across the center of the intersection. Several cars that had been heading into the intersection put on their brakes and slid to stops on either side of the Batmobile, one narrowly avoiding hitting the barely perceptible car. Batman looked down Jones Street and spotted the red Toyota coupe speeding towards the clogged intersection. The car showed no signs of slowing down, but it had no place to turn off. There was no escape evident for the driver.

The Toyota swerved suddenly, spinning around 90 degrees to the left and coming to a stop nearly twenty feet from the Batmobile and the blocked intersection. The driver-side door swung open and the driver dove out, charging madly out onto the sidewalk and disappearing between two buildings. The police squad car that had been in pursuit ran up on the sidewalk, and the officer exited, his weapon drawn, and ran after the driver.

Batman had already slid open the canopy of his vehicle. Now, he leapt out of his seat onto the hood of the car, opening the panel to the left of his buckle plate and activating the batmobile security system. The car's canopy slid shut and locked down. Batman leapt from his car, over the front of another, and onto the street. He pulled the grapple from his belt and fired it up at the top of one of the buildings across the street. Activating the cord retractor, Batman was on the roof in a matter of seconds and sprinting along towards the end. When he got there, he just caught sight of the car's driver turning sideways and slipping into another narrow alley between buildings.

"Stop in the name of the law!!" the pursuing officer screamed at the top of his lungs, holding his pistol at his side. Batman fired his grapple across the thirty-foot expanse between his position and the roof of the next building, then detached the cord from the gun and fastened it to an antenna bolted behind him onto the roof. Gripping the cord with both hands, he stepped off the roof and planted his feet flat against the side of the building. Pushing off with the full power of his legs, he slid across the space and threw his legs up over the edge of the opposite roof, flipping up to a standing position.

Running to the edge and looking out over the lamp-lit street, Batman only saw the police officer as he emerged from the other side of the alley and ran out onto the sidewalk. The driver of the red Toyota was nowhere to be found. The officer holstered his gun and pulled his walkie-talkie off his belt. "He's gone," Batman heard him say. "I can't find him."

The Dark Knight looked up and down Darning Street. For now, he couldn't find him either.

Darning Street, 8:14 p.m.

Officer Finch slipped the walkie-talkie in his belt and looked around. He could already hear the sirens of his fellow officers in the distance; they'd be here inside of two minutes. The street was level and straight for several hundred yards in both directions, so the driver of the Toyota had to have gone into one of the nearby buildings. Finch arbitrarily picked a direction--left--and went for the closest building.

The building at 2121 Darning Street was a four-story structure with a guns and ammo shop at street level. Finch pulled his gun again and walked up to the front of the shop. He walked inside, where a short man in his late forties was behind a glass counter. "What the hell's going on?" he asked excitedly when he saw the officer's gun.

"Look, Mister, if the guy came in here just tell me right now. Otherwise, if we don't find him, we'll come back here first and tear the place apart. Understand?" Finch said sharply, then began looking around. There was a doorway covered by a heavy black curtain near the back of the shop.

"Wait a minute, you can't do that," the man behind the counter said. "I mean, you need a warrant or something to come in here and look for whatever, or whoever. Don't say I'm wrong, either. . . . 'Cause I know I'm right!"

Finch ignored the man's protests and unclipped his walkie-talkie from his belt. "Lieutenant Kitch, this is Finch."

"Where are you, Officer?" came Kitch's voice over the small speaker.

"I'm at a gun shop at twenty-one twenty-one Darning. I lost the driver of the Toyota, but he had to have gone into one of these buildings, and the owner of the shop isn't being too cooperative."

The walkie-talkie was silent for a long moment. "Understood. Stay there, Finch," Kitch said finally. The walkie-talkie went silent. Finch secured it on his belt and looked back at the shop owner.

"Now, Mr . . . ?"

The shop owner looked contemptuously at Finch. "Simpson. Hiram Simpson."

"Well, Mr. Simpson, I'd like to suggest to you that you cooperate in every way possible. Of course, if the guy I'm looking for is here, you're already not following that suggestion."

Lieutenant Kitch's car pulled up outside the shop. Kitch and Detective Finster exited and stalked into the building. Mr. Simpson was growing increasingly nervous. Kitch went straight to Officer Finch. "You think he's in here?"

Finch nodded. "He came through the alley out into this street--" Finch pointed out the glass door to Darning Street. "--and when I got there he was nowhere to be seen."

"How far behind him were you?"

"Maybe ten seconds at the absolute limit. And that road is totally straight and flat all the way. He had to've come in a building, and from what I could see, this is the closest one."

Kitch nodded. Detective Finster stepped forward and started walking around the room, looking at the weapons that hung on the walls and were displayed in the glass counter. Finster stopped when he was as far from Hiram Simpson as he could possibly be in the room, then looked right at the man. "This place yours? You own it? Or are you just a lackey?"

Hiram Simpson started to talk immediately, but stopped before actually saying anything. Maybe he was stammering, caught off-guard by Finster's audacity. "Uh . . . uh, no. No, it's my store."

Lieutenant Kitch took command, stepping up beside the owner. Kitch was several inches taller than Hiram Simpson; he towered over the man. Officer Finch could only imagine how intimidated the smaller man was. "We're looking for a man named Tom Lucas. He's about five foot ten, dark brown hair." Kitch held out his hand to Finster, and the detective reached into his pocket and removed a folded-up piece of fax paper. He passed it to Kitch, who unfolded it and held it up in front of Simpson. Printed on the paper was an enlarged copy of Tom Lucas' driver's license photo, as well as a copy of his fingerprints, taken six years ago when he was arrested on a minor assault charge. "Recognize him?"

Simpson studied the picture for a moment, although it must've been hard, since the picture wasn't very clear at all. After a minute of squinting at the fax paper, Simpson shook his head, almost looked regretful. "Nope," he said, waving his hand. "Never seen the man."

"Sure you didn't see him a few minutes ago when he ran in here screaming 'Hide me, hide me!'?" Detective Finster asked sharply.

Simpson seemed more than a little annoyed by the detective. "No one came in here. Not five minutes ago, not ten minutes ago. It's slow today; I've seen maybe six people."

Kitch nodded, then put his hand on Finster's shoulder and the two men started out. Officer Finch followed behind just close enough to be able to hear them.

"We're going to turn this place upside down. And I want as many men as we can spare checking out the buildings in this immediate area. Mr. Lucas had to disappear to somewhere. Now, he wouldn't go out the back door, since that's where we were. He wouldn't want to run right back into our hands. He seems too smart for that."

Finster started out to the squad car, but then stopped. He turned around. "What if he did backtrack?"

Batman couldn't see where the driver of the Toyota had run to. Nothing disappears. But if that were true, then what happened to him?

The police seemed to think that he had ducked into one of the buildings. Nothing else seemed to make sense.

Sirens were whirling in the distance, on their way here. Batman stood and started back for the back edge of the roof, confident that the police would overlook something; there was no way he was leaving yet. Every building along Darning street had a back exit of some kind, and it was possible that the police or even Batman himself had missed something important.

Batman stepped up on the parapet of the roof and reached down to his belt to activate his two-way radio. Robin and Nightwing would be waiting for word from him most likely. He flipped open the appropriate panel on his belt and--

Batman stood and spun around all at once, starting straight at the roof of 2121 Darning Street. Something seen in the corner of his eye had triggered his unmatched instincts, and rightfully so. Tom Lucas, the driver of the red Toyota, the murderer of four gay men, had just emerged from a door onto the roof of the building.

Batman clipped his belt panel shut and bounded instantly for the edge of the roof. His foot stepped up on the very edge, pivoted downward, and he leapt forward. Arms outstretched for a moment, then waving wildly, legs kicking, he covered the twelve-foot distance between buildings easily, landing on the opposite roof. He rolled immediately and flipped to his feet, setting eyes on Lucas.

The man looked shocked to say the least. The thought of saying something to the killer had briefly entered Batman's mind, but left at once. There was no need for words with this one; only action. The shock suddenly left from the man's face, and he looked at Batman with complete serenity. The Dark Knight's muscles tingled instinctively--Lucas was ready to bolt--and he leapt forward, reaching out for his prey.

Lucas stood there, waiting. He caught Batman's hands and fell to the ground, going with the momentum. When Lucas hit the roof, he brought his feet up and flipped his darkly-costumed opponent over his head.

Batman landed firmly on his hands and pushed off into the air. Twisting and somersaulting around, he landed squarely on his feet, facing Tom Lucas again. Wasting no time, Batman reached for a batarang and flung it hard towards the killer. Lucas waited until the projectile was in the air, coming towards him, then bolted to the side, sprinting for the edge of the roof. Not stopping, Lucas leapt off of the edge . . . but didn't make it to the other side. He let out an agonized scream as he fell, arms flailing, to the asphalt below.

Batman charged to the edge, expecting to see Lucas lying injured or dead at the bottom of the man-made canyon between the buildings. He didn't see Lucas at all.

He saw a pair of feet just disappear around the corner of the opposite building. Dammit . . . not this time, Batman thought doggedly as he perched up on the ledge of the roof, then bounded over to the other side of the same urban crevice Lucas had jumped down. Hitting the other roof running, Batman flipped open his communication controls and radioed the Redbird.

Near the corner of 12th Avenue and Marathon Street, 8:22 p.m.

Nightwing pulled the kevlar and nomex tunic over his chest, pulling the bottom down and fastening it to the tights of his costume. He reached into the Redbird and took his gauntlets from the passenger seat, pulling them on one at a time onto his hands, then flexing his fingers. He raised his arms and stretched, looking over at Robin, who was waiting for him behind the car's steering wheel.

"Ahhhh," Nightwing said with satisfaction. "That's better." He climbed into the car beside Robin. "This is a nice car," he said as he admired the vehicle's cockpit. "The batmobile's seats aren't cushioned like this, are they?" Nightwing pushed himself back into the seat, settling in as best he could.

Robin grinned, looking over at his friend. "You like the car, huh?"

"Yeaaah!" Nightwing said in a low, Barry White-ish whisper. "In fact, I'm kind of wondering why Batman didn't let me have a car like this when I was Robin."

Robin shrugged and smiled even wider. He was already laughing at something he hadn't said yet. "Maybe he prefers you as Nightwing . . . "

Nightwing chuckled weakly. "Well, that'd certainly explain it. So what now?"

"We wait for Batman . . . whenever he decides to--" The Redbird's radio speaker let out a single beep, then Batman spoke:

"Robin . . . come in . . ."

Robin reached down and flipped a switch, opening the channel. "Yeah, Batman. We're right here."

"Nightwing's with you?"

"I'm right beside him, chief," Nightwing said into the two-way speaker.

"Where are you located?"

"Close to McCarthy's, at the corner of 12th and Marathon. An alley near there," Robin answered.

"The driver of the red Toyota, Tom Lucas, is running west on Shuster Avenue. You're only about two minutes away from us. Get in front of him."

Robin and Nightwing reached up above them and pulled the driver and passenger canopies shut. Robin input a seven-digit code into a number pad beneath the steering wheel, and the engine came to life.

The Redbird pulled out from the alley; Shuster Avenue was three blocks away.

8:26 p.m.

He's not only fast, he's got stamina to go along with it.. That was one of the thoughts that entered Batman's head when he realized that he'd been following Tom Lucas along the rooftops at his top speed, and only barely keeping up. The killer had only a few precious seconds for a head-start, but he had taken full advantage of it, and was now starting to lengthen his lead on the cowled pursuer. If this kept up for much longer, Batman would have to abandon the rooftop pursuit and try an old-fashioned foot chase.

The first opportunity to end the already tiresome chase came when Lucas started to slow as he approached the intersection with Marathon Street. Batman pushed ahead to a full sprint and was just reaching the edge of the current roof when Lucas was starting into the intersection. Seizing what could've been his only opportunity to make this a short night for himself, Batman sprung off of the roof and began a fast descent to the pavement calculating that he would hit the ground right behind the man's heels. He'd done this hundreds of times before.

This time it was different. Lucas turned around an instant after Batman began his leap. He waited until the instant before Batman would've hit the ground, and from out of nowhere pulled a knife. Batman saw it but couldn't react in time; everything was happening in slow motion . . . everything was happening inside of half a second. Lucas thrust the knife forward, and it stuck squarely in Batman's stomach. Lucas immediately released his grip on the knife and took off in the direction he'd been going.

The Redbird came screaming up, its tires squealing as Robin pulled it to a stop. Batman was on one knee in the middle of the street, a knife projecting painfully out of his stomach. He reached down and slowly pulled it out, the blade crimson.

The next instant, Robin was next to him. Nightwing was standing over him, looking around. "Are you all right?" Robin asked with near frantic concern. "I'll call Alfred." The boy stood to start back for his car, but Batman grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

"I think the knife missed everything major. It just looks bad, and hurts like hell, but I'll get past that. I'm fine."

Batman handed the knife to Robin, then stood as if there weren't a scratch on him. The wound was gone for now, at least in his mind. "Lucas will want to put as much distance between him and us as he can. Given his speed, he'll know the best way to do that is by just sprinting straight on until he can't go anymore, then finding someplace to hide out while he plans his next step." Batman pointed straight down Shuster Street. "He'll be starting into the D-M-Z soon, nothing but condemned buildings and ghettos. He'll run out of places to hide. Robin, you and Nightwing start off after him now in the Redbird. I'll call for my car and catch up with you."

Robin nodded and started back obediently for the Redbird; this was no time to argue strategy. Nightwing obeyed as well, but not before adding, "Roger."

Bordertown, A.K.A. "The DMZ," 8:36 p.m.

Batman brought the batmobile to a stop near the center of the two-block Gotham district known as Bordertown to everyone but those unfortunate enough to live there. The De-Militarized Zone, as it was better known, almost made the rest of Gotham City look like a civilized place to live. Almost.

Batman adjusted the pack of gauze pressed against his injured midsection. The bleeding had slowed, but hadn't stopped. No time for that now, though.

Thomas Jonathan Lucas, read the small computer monitor in the batmobile's cockpit. Batman had called up the file, and was reading it as he made his way to the DMZ. The information he was really looking for came under the Residential History heading:

Lived 2 years in Apartment 17-E, located at 2210 Burlington Drive

Lived 6 months in Apartment 3-A, located at 2345 Border Avenue (CONDEMNED)

Living currently 1 year, 7 months at 3432 Fountainhead Plaza

The second entry in the record was less than half a block away, in the heart of the abandoned section of Bordertown. Most of the buildings there were ruled fire traps years ago and evacuated. The entire area was scheduled for demolition in the next three years, to make room for all new urban development.

. The perfect hiding place . . . if a little obvious. Batman immediately switched on the batmobile's radio and opened a channel to the Redbird.

2103 Border Avenue, 8:40 p.m.

" . . . you're just over three blocks away. Go ahead and check it out without me; I'll be on my way."

Robin nodded. "Right. See you there." He switched off the radio, and the Redbird glided on down the street.

Nightwing seemed as enthused as ever. "Yay," he said in a dry, sardonic tone, "tromping around through a condemned building, with finding a serial killer as the best possible thing that could happen to me. This is what I love about crimefighting."

"Could be worse, " offered Robin as he guided his car through the garbage-littered street. "You could be President."

Nightwing tried to act comforted. "This is true. Better to wade through real garbage than the human kind. Wait . . . that's what I do."

Robin stopped the Redbird outside of 2345 Border, locked down the controls, and popped open his canopy. He and Nightwing exited. Robin shut and locked his canopy. "Ready?"

"No," Nightwing said, shaking his head as he closed and locked the passenger-side canopy. "But, I'm going in anyway."

The building was falling apart on the outside, but that was nothing compared to the crumbling inside. Nightwing entered first, stepping carefully on what was certainly a rotten wooden floor. There was a staircase leading up to a second floor. He turned to Robin. "You look around down here. I'll check the upstairs."

Nightwing started for the staircase. "Wait," Robin said, holding up his hand. "These floors are falling apart. I weigh about fifty pounds less than you; maybe I oughta take the second floor."

If he had any objection, Nightwing decided not to make an issue of it. He merely stepped aside and let Robin take the stairs. "Keep an open radio channel."

"Will do," Robin said, and his hands went to the buckle of his utility belt.

Man . . . this place is rotten . . . Nightwing thought to himself; he could hear Robin's every step on the second floor, and actually got kind of nervous when it sounded like the Boy Wonder was stepping over his position. The radio channel was quiet, except for controlled breathing and the creaking of the floorboards.

The first floor of the building was laid out simply: a small alcove where the stairs were, beside the stairs a narrow hallway that led back to the first floor apartments. There were two doors on either side of the long hallway, each door approximately ten feet apart. Four apartments on this floor. Presumably, the second floor was laid out the same way.

Seeing no other choice, but wishing there were an alternative, Nightwing walked up to the first door on the right side of the hall and turned the knob. The knob turned--the door wasn't locked. He opened it up slightly and peered through the crack; the room appeared empty. But, there was still plenty of space behind the door. Nightwing leaned his shoulder against the door and burst into the room, slamming the door hard around into the wall. He spun away from it and stood in the center of the room--it was empty.

There was still the bathroom, though. And the closet. Nightwing chose the closet . . .

Wrong choice. As he started towards the closet, the floorboards squeaked. Senses alive suddenly, he turned his head around--

--right into the sweet spot of a Louisviille Slugger. A second later, Nightwing was unconscious on the floor of the apartment, with a jaw he didn't even know was in great pain. Tom Lucas was standing over him, holding the bat.

8:50 p.m.

Nightwing opened his eyes. His internal timing device wasn't as specific or accurate as Batman's, but he definitely knew that he hadn't been out for more than ten minutes. The first thing he realized when he opened his eyes was that he could feel the rough floor boards against his skin. He looked down at himself; Bear to the boxers . . . perfect. Just perfect. After looking briefly around, he saw his costume in a pile on the other side of the room.

His hands were bound securely behind him, and his bare feet were also tied tightly together. He immediately began to struggle, but he could already tell he wasn't go to get anywhere, at least not right away. Maybe if he could bring his feet up far enough behind him, his hands could reach the rope around his ankles . . .

Dick lifted his feet, bent his knees, and brought his feet back down, close to his thighs. He rolled over on his side, and realized as he did so that this floor felt much more solid. Just to test it, he rolled back over slightly and knocked against the floorboards: solid, no hollow echo. Looking around, he noticed that there were no windows. All the light in the room was artificial. He wasn't just in another room, he was on another floor--in the basement.

He rolled his eyes. Even better.

His eyes moved to the only visible exit from the room, a door in the far wall, where his captor had just walked through. This must've been Tom Lucas, and this would be the first time since the bar that Dick would get a good look at his face.

He was the same man who had looked at Dick inside the Double Door. He was the same man who had murdered four people. Tom Lucas stood shirtless over Dick, wearing only a pair of loose-fitting sweats. He looked at Dick, right in the eyes, and smiled.

"You're the one from the bar," he said. "The one who didn't belong."

Lucas' voice was calm, even, melodious. It would've been a pleasant thing to hear him speak under better circumstances. But there was a vicious undercurrent to that voice, barely detectable. Dick could pick up on it, though. He could hear it when Lucas said, "didn't belong."

The best thing to do in this type of situation was to keep the guy talking. So, Dick started to talk. "What do you mean? Why didn't I belong?"

Lucas seemed personally insulted by this question. "Don't you dare insult me like that. Especially after the unforgivable sin you committed tonight."

Dick was now genuinely confused, which was good. It gave them more to talk about. "I'm not aware of any sins I've done tonight, but I've been alive a good long time now. I'm sure I've--"

"Shut-up." Lucas didn't yell when he said it. It was a flat, forceful command. And, for the moment, Dick obeyed. "Although I haven't seen them for myself yet, I'm sure you've got one tremendous set of balls. How else could you be bold enough to . . . feign that kind of ignorance?"

The shrinks at Arkham could build their whole careers around this guy, Dick found himself thinking.

"I'm afraid I don't have any idea what the hell you're talking about."

Lucas walked up and stood over Dick, his legs straddling either side of his waist. He bent down and slapped him hard across the face, then walked back to the center of the room. Dick spit almost involuntarily and shook his head furiously. "Look," he said, "if you'd just indulge me here."

"Indulgence is a dangerous thing for a man like me," Tom Lucas said menacingly.

Dick moved immediately past the remark. "I meant, if you'll tell me what it is you think--what it is I did, it'd make it all that much easier for me to own up to it. Don't you think?"

"Don't DO that!!" Lucas screamed furiously. "You know what you did!! You're straight!! But you went there anyway!! Why would you do that?! I demand that you explain yourself!"

Dick had no idea how to respond. It looked like Lucas had just snapped, and what he was screaming about was anyone's guess. "I'm . . . going to need a little more than that . . ."

Tom appeared close to losing control. "Don't keep doing that . . . don't keep it up, I'm telling you . . ." he said, almost pleading. "Don't keep denying what you did. You dressed up . . . and you went into that gay bar."

Dick nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's what I did. I thought it might help us find you."

"Oh," Tom said, "you did it to find me, huh? Well . . .? Was it worth it?"

"Was what worth it? I found you, didn't I?"

"No. Was it worth denying yourself?"

"I wasn't denying anything, Tom. I was undercover. Playing a role. That's it. Doing a job."

Tom jumped up and stomped down hard onto the floor. His face was twisted with anguish and anger that he was struggling to control. "Why?"

"What?"

"Why did you do that? Do you want to be like me? Do you?"

Dick shook his head. This was an easy enough question to answer. "No. Of course not."

"Then why? You don't even know what I am!"

All right . . . talking just isn't working. Might as well play along, Dick reasoned. "What are you, Tom? Come-on and tell me."

"How can you just be so casual about it? Goddammit, do you know what it is that I do? Do you know what I do??!!"

Dick cleared his throat and looked Tom right square in the eyes. "You're a murderer, Tom. You kill people. That's what you do."

"No . . . no," Tom began to explain, suddenly calm. It was frightening to hear him talk in such an emotionless tone. "I kill people because I want to. I kill people because it makes me feel better about what I am."

"You haven't told me what you are yet, Tom."

Tom took a deep breath. He lowered his head and was chillingly silent. "I . . ." he began slowly, raising his head slightly, " . . . fuck . . . men. Do you understand now what I do? I fuck men who fuck men."

"You're gay."

"You don't understand! I'm not just gay, you . . . you . . . just shut the fuck up!! For one goddamn minute!! Let me talk!!"

"All right . . . all right. Talk, talk. By all--"

Enraged, Tom charged the wall of the room, kicking it angrily. "Quiet!! I said quiet!! I hate gay people! I hate the disgusting, carnal, ridiculous cheapness of the lifestyle!! I hate everything about being gay! So . . . to make up for what I am, I use them and then I get rid of them!!"

"You killed those men out of guilt? For being gay?"

"Will you shut the fuck up!!! I fuck them, I beat them, and I cut their faggot dicks off!!"

"You don't enjoy what you do?"

"I don't enjoy what I am!! Do you know how sick it makes me to look at a man and to see that man as nothing but a . . . a carnal object?! An outlet for sickening, Godless behavior. Do you know how disgusted I am to look at you . . . and want to fuck you? Can you even fathom the things I'm thinking of doing to you?"

Dick swallowed hard and tried to give Lucas a calm look. "I'm really trying not to think about that."

"Well, you'd better start," Lucas warned, "because it'll happen pretty soon. You're not gay, you're worse. You were straight and you lied. Why would you ever want to be like me? Just pretending is so great a sin . . . death doesn't even come close to adequate punishment, but it's the closest I can deliver. Besides, I have to continue to perform my penance. You'll help out a lot with that."

"Penance?"

"I can never change what I am. Being a faggot isn't a choice, it's a curse put on me by what I've decided must have been cruel fate, far crueler than that of anyone else in the whole history of humanity. I can't change, but I can work towards redemption in the eyes of God."

Dick couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Wha . . . you're doing penance by murdering people?"

"I'm cleansing the Earth of the evil and the Godless. I'm doing great good, despite my . . . condition."

"This is ridiculous."

"What is ridiculous? That I'm trying to serve God against the evil and the sickness of my kind?"

"If you think that God rewards murderers, then you're either seriously misguided or hopelessly insane." Lucas bolted forward, grabbing Dick by the hair with one hand and backhanding him hard across the mouth with the other. Dick raised his eyebrows and nodded as best he could. "I'd opt for the second one . . ."

Lucas struck Dick hard across the cheek again, enraged beyond anything he'd exhibited before, if that was possible. "Shut-UP. You're asking for it . . . oh dear God, you're asking for it." Lucas reached down and started to pull down his sweats. Seizing the opportunity, Dick brought his tied feet up forcefully, kicking Lucas solidly in the groin.

Lucas bent over suddenly, his face shocked and full of pain. Dick brought his knees up to his chest and kicked Lucas square in the face. Tom fell back onto the floor, holding his head and moaning. Dick immediately rolled over on his side and brought his feet as far back behind him as he could, trying to untie the ropes around his ankles.

"Nightwing!!"

Dick looked up; it was the voice of Robin, muffled by the locked door. "Robin!!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Robin!! We're in here!!"

Lucas got to his feet immediately and scrambled over to the far left corner from Dick and pulled up a floorboard. From beneath the floorboard he pulled an imposing .9-millimeter semi-automatic pistol, and pointed it at the door. "Robin, CLEAR!!!" Dick belted out.

Lucas opened fire with the semi-automatic, squeezing the trigger again and again. "Die Bastards!!!!" The old door was reduced practically to splinters in a few seconds.

Robin crashed through the near-destroyed door and lunged for the gun. He took hold of Lucas' wrist and shoved it up as he pulled the trigger again. From out of nowhere, Batman appeared in the doorway, batarang in hand. He flung the sleek weapon down at Lucas' leg, and it found it's mark, slicing deep into the man's upper thigh.

Robin wrenched away the gun, and Lucas sank to his knees, literally squealing in pain. As Robin moved to untie Dick, Batman knelt down next to Lucas, and reached behind his cape to the back of his utility belt. His hand returned with the knife that he'd been stabbed with, wiped clean of any possibly identifying blood. Batman reached down and pulled his batarang out of the man's leg; Lucas screamed again. Batman flashed him the knife, and his eyes zeroed in on the blade.

Batman stuck the knife down into the floorboards beside Lucas. "I'm going to have to return this one," he said. He held up the bloody batarang that had been in the other man's thigh. "And, I'm taking back mine, as well."

Beneath Wayne Manor, 10:10 p.m.

" . . . the suspect behind the recent rash of gay killings was taken into custody by police in Gotham's Bordertown district. The man, identified as Thomas Lucas, has been given the nickname of the Gay-Bar Butcher by local gay rights organizations. In other news tonight--"

"That's enough, Alfred,"

Alfred clicked off the television monitor and returned immediately to dressing Bruce's wound. "You are most fortunate, Master Bruce," he said with typical English neutrality. "The wound is rather deep, but the damage done was minimal. I recommend that you spend the next few days in recuperation. However, I predict that the same day you actually follow my precautions, my hair shall grow back as well. Please, try to take it slow, sir."

Bruce nodded, but it was clear he had no intention of following "Doctor's orders." He stood and started for the elevator that led to the lower plateau of the cave, wanting to make up for the elements of his workout he'd missed by having to go out several hours early. After the workout, he'd go back out again with Robin to complete his standard patrol. It already seemed like a very long night.

Alfred gathered up his gauze, scissors, and various other medical tools and started for the stone staircase the spiraled up to the mansion. "Hey, Alfred?" Dick said; he had been sitting at Bruce's chair in front of the computer console, doing what Tim would call "spacing out."

"Yes, Master Dick?"

"I'm sure I'll sleep until around six tomorrow evening if no one interrupts me . . . but do you think you could drop by my apartment sometime tomorrow. Around three, if you can get away from . . . making dinner, I guess."

Alfred nodded. "Of course. Why? What shall we be doing?"

Dick shrugged. "It's been a difficult day to say the least. There's someone I want to see tomorrow."

Wednesday
St. Arthur's Hospital, 3:36 p.m.

"That rather attractive young nurse outside told me he was the third one in from the right," Alfred said, pointing to who he had just described.

Dick leaned on the railing, almost pressing his face up against the glass. "Amazing . . ." he said, voice full of wonder. He smiled wistfully. "He looks . . . like his mother."

A tiny, wrinkled, pink face slept peacefully only a few feet away behind the glass barrier. Dick waved at him, even though it was pointless since the infant was asleep. Alfred watched Dick watch the baby, putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

The attractive young nurse Alfred had spoken of came by and looked at who Dick was looking at. "A visitor for our adorable little orphan?" she asked.

Dick nodded. "Yeah. I . . . uh, I knew his mother."

The nurse nodded. "And his father? Did you know him."

Dick looked at the small, newborn child. He realized that whatever in that face didn't look like Heidi must have come from his father. "You could say . . . in a way I did."

Alfred stepped away from the glass and looked at the nurse. "What is to become of . . . the little 'orphan,' as you so accurately put it?"

"As I understand it, the mother's parents are to assume care for now. They'll probably be awarded legal custody within a few months."

Alfred nodded with approval. "Everything has been tended to, then."

Dick looked quickly at Alfred, then back at the small, sleeping face. "Oh yes," he said, grinning, almost laughing joyfully in the presence of this new life. "He's going to be just fine."

Now, on to Episode Nineteen!!