BATMAN: The New Continuity

His name is Harvey Harris, and he's lived here since he retired seventeen years ago. They called him the World's Greatest Detective. He never admits to it, though, always shrugs and shakes his head modestly. Not that people notice him all that often anymore. He lives now just as he has since he retired, outside the eye of the media, and grateful for it. He doesn't want attention. He doesn't crave the adoring eyes of the public, nor do they crave him. He just wants to live. Quietly. Here on his farm.

He's lived here for fifteen of his seventeen retired years. As a boy, he always wanted a farm. As a grown-up with money to spare, he bought one. People were calling it the Harris Farm before the sale was even finalized. It's twenty miles outside of the city. It's so far away that the ugliness of the city is only a collection of dark shapes, indistinct outlines of partially-seen buildings. Harvey likes to call it "living outside of Hell."

He likes living on the farm. He likes living without the badge in his pocket, the gun on his side. He likes not having to look at a different murder scene, a new dead stranger everyday. He likes the chores. Right now, he's feeding the animals. The horses. He has three horses, and rides them all. It relaxes him.

When he finishes feeding the horses, Harvey starts back to the house, the great big farmhouse. He's seventy-seven years old, but he looks like he's fifty. He walks like he's forty. He could still be a detective. He's as sharp as anyone else on the force right now, by his estimation. He'd make a fine Commissioner. But, they've already got a Commissioner. And, Commissioners don't get to live on farms.

Harvey walks up the steps and goes into his big farm house. It's hot outside today, and he's sweating like one of his pigs. He wipes his brow with his handkerchief, walks past the portrait of his mother hanging on the wall. Esmerelda Harris died the same year her son retired from the Gotham City Police Department.

The kitchen of the farmhouse is Harvey's favorite room. He spends most of his time here, sitting at the table. He cooks his breakfast and eats it at the table, while he reads the paper. When he orders supplies for his farm, he sits at the table as he talks on the phone.

Harvey stops in the doorway, about to step into the kitchen, but deciding not to. He looks at the man standing in the kitchen, the man who he's heard and read so much about, but never seen. They say there are no pictures of him. At least, no confirmed ones. Anyone could put on a mask and go up on the roof and take a picture. It's like seeing a flying saucer. He never talks to the press, he never lingers at crime scenes, he never files reports. But, some people call him the World's Greatest Detective. Harvey Harris has never understood that. Not that he cares who they put that title on. It doesn't matter, especially not right now.

What matters right now is the man standing in the kitchen. Harvey Harris' muscles go tense. He starts to sweat even more. In the few seconds he has left to live, two questions flash through Harvey Harris' mind: What is Batman doing in his kitchen? And, why does he have a knife?

Sunday
Gotham City Police Headquarters
11:07 p.m.

James Gordon rushed out onto the dark rooftop, his hair mussed and his eyes still groggy from sleep, and cast his eyes upwards to the sky.

The bat-signal hung there, floating disembodied against the slowly passing clouds. Gordon looked from the sky down again to the base of the signal, where a dark-clad figure was just touching down on the roof. Batman. He stood there beside the signal for a moment, and then realizing that Gordon had seen him, approached the other man.

"You look tired," the vigilante said, stopping and standing ten feet opposite the commissioner.

Gordon nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yes, I do. What's the problem?"

Batman regarded Gordon quietly for a moment, puzzled. "That's normally my question."

Gordon sighed. "Yes, historically. But, this time you lit the signal."

"No I didn't."

There was silence between them. Turning his back to Gordon after a few seconds, Batman moved to the spotlight and ran his gloved fingers across its metal shell. Beneath the cowl, his eyes narrowed, hawk-like.

Gordon approached. "What are you thinking?"

Batman gave no answer. His eyes traced along the contours of the signal's casing, and then up onto the top, narrowing even further faced with the brilliant light. Batman reached around and switched off the signal. The encircled silhouette of a bat disappeared from the sky. Able to see the surface of the spotlight clearly now in the dim illumination of the Gotham night, Batman focused on a three-by-five inch rectangle of paper taped to the center of the bat shape, where it would go unseen on the projection.

Batman pulled the note off and held it in front of him. He read:

Darling --
Might want to mosey on over to the old Harris place. I hear there's trouble a'brewin'.

His fist closed tight around the paper, and Batman turned for the edge of the roof.

Commissioner Gordon watched him vanish into the shadows just as he had countless times before. Gordon eyed the still shadows for another moment, and then turned himself and left the roof.

The Harris Farm
Twenty Miles Outside Gotham City
11:36 p.m.

The farmhouse was dark, quiet when the Batmobile pulled up the dirt road leading to the structure. The sleek black vehicle, even more imperceptible here in the rural darkness than it would be in the urban night of Gotham City, pulled to a stop at the end of the gravel-paved lane. The car's roof canopy lifted slightly and slid forward, and the driver emerged from the cockpit. As he walked away, the canopy slid shut again, locking down until the driver would return.

Batman entered the house through the front door, something which he couldn't remember doing before. He examined the door before turning the knob, of course, and found it to be without wiring or electronic sensors. He activated the infrared lenses in his cowl and looked over the door and windows, and found no heat residuals that would indicate someone else having been here recently. And only one set of fingerprints, presumably belonging to Harvey Harris.

Once inside the door, Batman was presented with two possible routes: a hallway leading back to a living room and a kitchen, or a stairway leading up to a second floor.

Batman started back the hallway. There was a small cedar chest of drawers next to the doorway into the living room, on the top of which were displayed framed pictures of numerous people, probably family and friends. Batman recognized one of the faces as Esmerelda Harris, Harvey's mother, dead seventeen years.

He passed the doorway leading to the living room, looking inside and seeing empty furniture, nothing more. He continued on to the kitchen, stopping only a moment in the doorway when he saw the body of Harvey Harris lying stiff on top of the table in the center of the roof. The muscles in Batman's jaw tightened as he moved to stand alongside the table. He looked down grimly at the dead man.

A large knife stuck out of his chest, the blade driven down into the heart. The blade of the knife also pierced a slip of paper, holding it prominently on the man's body. Batman reached down and pressed his finger on one corner. With a feeling of grave familiarity, he leaned over the note and read:

Here lies the World's Greatest Detective.
May he burn in Hell.
The title is yours now. So what next?
--T.S.

Batman resisted the urge to tear this note off and crush it in his fist, just as he had the last one. He pulled his eyes away from the body of Harvey Harris and turned around to the kitchen counter, where sat the telephone. Batman picked up the handset, first dialing the number for Gotham City Police Headquarters, and then the extension for Commissioner Gordon's office; he knew Gordon would be there.

Monday
Beneath Wayne Manor
12:07 a.m.

Dick Grayson pressed the mask to his face, and it stayed there. He examined himself quickly in the mirror, gave a satisfactory nod, and started for the door.

As Nightwing, he emerged from the costume vault, stepping out onto the Batcave's upper plateau. Robin was here, sitting at the computer. Nightwing approached, stretching his arms out, reaching as far as he could with his gloved fingertips. He moved to stand behind Robin, crossing his arms and watching the large screen.

"What got Bruce out so early tonight?" Nightwing asked, clearing his throat immediately afterwards.

"I just talked to him on the radio; he didn't say," Robin responded. "He just said he was on his way back. He should be back here any time."

Nightwing nodded coolly to himself. "Did he say what Gordon wanted?"

Robin shook his head. "Just that he was on his way."

Nightwing shrugged and turned from Robin and the computer, starting across the plateau towards the elevator.

The Batmobile emerged from the access tunnel, rolling over the metal bridge that spanned the chasm between the tunnel and the plateau, onto the turntable. The canopy slid open, and Batman climbed out. As soon as he stepped off the turntable, it activated, spinning around and pointing the vehicle again towards the opening to the access tunnel.

Robin vacated his chair when he saw Batman approaching, an earnestness about him. Batman sat down in front of the main screen. He opened a new electronic dossier, typed for a few moments, then stopped and turned his head slightly in Nightwing's direction. "Harvey Harris was murdered. I found him at his farm tonight."

"Whoa . . ." Nightwing said after a long silence, his mouth held open involuntarily in shock. "My God . . ."

Robin folded his arms, regarding first Nightwing and then Batman with curious concern. He said nothing, and started slowly across the floor towards Nightwing.

Nightwing rubbed his chin uncomfortably. "Do Robin and I have to handle patrol tonight? I mean, assuming you want to handle this yourself."

Batman nodded, again watching the main screen and typing. "I'm going back out in a few minutes. I need to examine the body; it should be at the coroner's office by now."

Robin leaned towards Nightwing slightly, eyeing Batman as he spoke. "Who's Harvey Harris?" he asked, his tone hushed. Nightwing glanced at Robin briefly, then turned his gaze back to Batman and the computer.

"Not now. Later."

Batman stood from the computer, his new dossier complete for now and tucked away on the computer's massive hard drive, and started back to the costume vault. He entered the vault, walking past the long racks full of aesthetically identical Batman suits to an area near the back, where various fashions of street clothes hung on several racks next to the make-up table. Batman rifled briefly through the clothes once, stopped, and went through everything again, more carefully this time. He finished the second time through, and looked at the clothes hanging there with what could almost be described as contempt. He took nothing from the rack.

Crossing the short distance to the other wall of the vault, Batman pressed the call button on the intercom once, hard. The dry, English-accented tones of Alfred came over the speaker after a brief silence, during which Batman stared at the intercom panel with tightly crossed arms. "Yes?"

"Alfred, where is my coroner's office janitor uniform?"

There was a pause before Alfred gave his answer. Batman's mind could see the butler's droll smile as he heard the tone of his response. "Considering a change to a healthier career, sir?"

"No," Batman replied, terse. "Do you know where it is, or not?"

Batman heard Alfred take in a deep breath and let it out. "I believe you neglected to bring it back with you from your Templeton Avenue apartment. You should find it there."

Batman nodded and turned away from the speaker.

"Planning on performing another illegal autopsy, sir?"

Walking out of the vault, Batman called back, "Maybe." Batman exited the vault, shutting off the lights, and closing and locking the heavy steel door.

"And what grisly crime did this poor soul fall victim to?" Alfred's voice was now originating from a larger, more sensitive two-way speaker mounted into the surface of the computer control console.

Batman crossed the plateau to the computer. "It's Harvey Harris. I found him murdered in his home tonight." Batman switched off the intercom, turned, and started for the Batmobile. "Go ahead and take the Eastlyn patrol," he said to Nightwing and Robin as the roof canopy of his vehicle slid open. "Meet me at the Templeton Avenue strike base at approximately one-thirty."

"Right. Okay," Robin said, and he and Nightwing walked to the elevator.

Twenty seconds later, the Batmobile was gone.

Overlooking 132 Agatha Drive
12:33 a.m.

Robin had dropped onto this rooftop from the end of his polymer line, and now, a moment later, Nightwing joined him. The two costumed figures walked over to the roof's parapet, leaning over the ledge. Nightwing pointed to a window on the third floor of the four-story apartment building across the street.

"I know a guy out of Newtown who hangs out in a lot of the criminal hangouts and dives around here. He's one of the regular fences for the cops in this precinct, and he told me that the guys who live in that apartment over there have been gearing up for a bank heist, probably tonight."

Robin leaned forward a little more, folding his arms and leading on the parapet. "How many guys?"

Nightwing turned to face Robin, leaning sideways against the ledge of the roof, his head turned and looking at the window. "My guy says three; two living in the apartment and a third guy, a friend of theirs. I don't have names, just this address that he gave me. I've stopped by here and scoped the place out the last few nights, and it looks like my fence is accurate."

Stepping away from the roof and stepping his right leg up onto the ledge, Nightwing pulled a small metal disk from a utility compartment on his calf. A sonic microphone, capable of translating the vibrations on windows generated by people talking inside a room into comprehensible audio. Nightwing affixed the small device to the end of his grappling gun, aimed, and fired at the window.

The small sonic microphone flew precisely across the street from the rooftop and attached itself securely to the center of the window of Apartment 2-C of 132 Agatha Drive. A length of polymer line ran from the microphone back to Nightwing's grappling gun, for retrieval.

Nightwing reached into one of the utility compartments that ringed his right forearm and removed a small headset. He flipped the headset's microphone wand out of the way and held the headphone to his left ear, making necessary adjustments in the receiving frequency by way of a small tuning knob on the outside of the headphone. He listened to what the microphone received:

"--still say we should wait for when Tommy can go in with us."

"No way. No fuckin' way. Tonight is like, perfect. They got that guy, that . . . what's his name?"

"Donnelly."

"Yeah, Donnelly. The new guy working tonight, first night. It'll be perfect. We know the floor plans, and this guy will probably still be getting used to the new job, right? It's perfect. No fuckin' way we're waiting."

"He's right. Who knows when your brother's gonna be back in town."

"Wednesday. He called me yesterday, he told me Wednesday."

"Wednesday. For all we know, Wednesday they got the goddamn security chief working. No fuckin' way."

Nightwing raised his eyebrows, listening with interest. He had been staring blankly, looking at nothing in particular, but now he happened to glance at Robin, who was still leaning on the parapet, looking out over the city. The boy's expression was distant, deeply thoughtful.

"Hey, you okay?" Nightwing asked, still half-listening to the headphone.

Robin nodded absently. "Yeah. It's just . . ." He turned around, putting his back to the apartment building, and taking in a deep, deliberate breath. "You seemed pretty shaken up when Batman mentioned who had been murdered. You sounded like you recognized the name. You did. I mean, who was he?"

"Who? You mean Harvey Harris?"

Robin nodded.

"He used to be a detective here in Gotham. He solved a lot of high-profile murder cases about thirty years ago, from what I understand."

"So, why were you so, like, taken aback when Batman told you he was dead? Just reacting to the passing of a local legend?"

Nightwing shook his head. "Harris was the detective who worked the Wayne murder case twenty-five years ago."

Now, Robin's mouth fell open. He reacted to this statement exactly as Nightwing had to the news of the man's death, and gave the same initial verbal response, "Whoa . . ."

Nightwing nodded. "Yeah, tell me about it. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of him. He retired before you were born, and the press has pretty much left him alone. He lives on a farm outside the city. Well, lived."

"Geez," Robin began, "no wonder you guys were a little--well, not a little. No wonder you were shaken up about it."

"Yeah, well . . . I mean, it's like he just lost another little connection to his parents, you know? It wasn't a very active connection. In fact, I think that he only met Harris once when he was a kid. And Harris never met Batman, to my--" Nightwing stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, holding up his right hand to Robin, signaling for silence, and pressing the headphones closer to his ear with the left hand.

"--go over this thing again. . . . This is the Davis-Leary right here, in between these two taller buildings. Around here, we're entering there at the back and running up that little hall. The guard will be sitting right up there. He comes back the hall to see what's going on, we put a bullet in his brain."

Nightwing put the headset back in its utility compartment, and gave a tug on the line trailing from the sonic mike. The grappling gun began winding the polymer line back in, retrieving the small listening device. When the line was back in, Nightwing took the microphone in his hand and slipped it back into the utility compartment around his calf. He attached a grappling hook to the end of his gun and began searching the area for a target.

"What did you get?" Robin asked, pulling his grappling gun as well.

"They're robbing the Davis-Leary bank. It's about ten blocks from here." Nightwing caught sight of a tall apartment building just down the street, its fire escapes jutting out on the side. He fired his grappling hook, and it found its mark, clasping tightly around the railing of the top-floor fire escape. Nightwing grasped the line tightly and stepped both feet up on the roof's ledge. He turned back to Robin. "I want us to beat them there."

Nightwing took a small hop and swung off the roof. Robin fired his grapple at the same fire escape. The next second, the roof was empty.

Central Coroner's Office
12:35 a.m.

The man sweeping the floor outside Examination Room 413 didn't work for the Coroner's Office. He wasn't a regular member of the janitorial staff. But, to look at him, that's just what he appeared to be. He was tall, about six feet, two inches, looked to weigh about 230 pounds, with a slight paunch. His face was hard, his eyes dark brown and hidden behind thick glasses, his hair black, and a horseshoe mustache beneath his nose and around his mouth.

The hallway was empty but for the pseudo-janitor. It was empty, but the man seemed to be looking back and forth as he pushed his broom along, looking to ensure that the area remained empty. Without witnesses. There were no people here, but there was one witness, seeing everything this man did. Of course, this man sweeping the floor in this empty hallway wasn't unaware of the presence of this witness. Quite the contrary; he'd been watching it since he arrived. It was a video camera, small, flat, rectangular, mounted on the ceiling, panning back and forth. It's movements were dictated by a pattern, sweeping across the whole field of the hallway every few seconds.

The camera panned away. It would be focused on the other side of the hallway for exactly four seconds before it would complete its swing back to where the man was standing. The man moved at once to the door to Examination Room 413. There was a thin, long piece of metal in his hand, and he inserted this into the lock. The door was open in another second or two, and the man slipped inside, closing the door. The camera panned back to an empty hallway.

Inside the examination room, the man flipped on the lights and lifted the janitor's cape from his head. He took off the glasses, folded them closed and dropped them into his shirt pocket. Without the glasses and cap he was, after brief scrutiny, recognizable as Bruce Wayne. Lying on a metal table near the center of the room was the body of Harvey Harris, naked. There was a large knife wound in the man's chest. No other wounds were apparent. No bruises, no cuts, no abrasions, no wounds of any kind.

On a countertop was a hand-held micro tape recorder. Bruce picked it up, rewound the tape inside, and pressed play. He listened as the presiding medical examiner dictated his findings. It was mostly unsurprising, apparent to the trained eye after a cursory visual examination of the body. There were no signs of struggle; Harris apparently died immediately, as the knife was driven straight into his heart.

"The blade entered the chest, striking in a slightly downward motion. The killer was most likely taller than the victim. Also, it appears that once this man was dead, the knife was removed, and then reinserted back into the same wound. This is most likely when the note the killer left was attached."

Bruce shut off the tape recorder and laid it back where he found it. He put the cap back on his head, put the glasses back on his face, took the broom in his hand, and moved to the door. He had been in this room for two minutes and eleven seconds. In another four seconds, the camera would be facing the other end of the hallway. Bruce turned the doorknob. Three seconds, two seconds . . .

Bruce opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

When the camera panned back, it saw only the same janitor as it had recorded before, pushing his broom down the hall. The janitor pushed his broom, moving beneath the camera and disappearing from its sight.

Davis-Leary Bank
21580 Ellicott Avenue
12:58 a.m.

Vince Godfrey was the oldest of the three men approaching the back door of the Davis-Leary Bank. The other two were Michael Godfrey, Vince's younger brother, and Greg Youngman, a friend of the Godfrey brothers and the self-anointed leader of the trio. Greg carried a black iron crowbar.

The back door of the bank was a heavily bolted wooden door secured by three separate dead-bolts. Greg jimmied the flat end of the crowbar in between the door and the jamb at the first of the dead-bolts, and worked the bar hard, first to the left, then to the right until the dead-bolt was loosened from its screws. Greg repeated this with the other door dead-bolts, then stood back.

Michael, the largest and strongest of the three, moved to stand directly opposite the door. He took a brief step back, then thrust his powerful right leg up and forward, driving it into the door with the full force of his weight and crashing it in. The door flung open, rebounding off the wall and swinging back to meet the shoulder of Michael, who stood half inside now.

Vince and Greg had pulled their guns, and now Michael pulled his--all three carried small snub-nosed revolvers, six rounds each. Greg pushed his way to the front and looked around, eyes darting back and forth. "Where's the guard?" He looked around some more, then turned and looked behind him at the Godfreys. "Where's the fuckin' guard?"

Where was the guard? They'd worked this out beforehand. Several times. They bust open the back door, the guard runs back to see what's going on, and they shoot him in the forehead. That was the plan. But, the guard was nowhere to be seen. All three became quite tense now, gripping the handles of their pistols tightly, their fingers lighting on the triggers. Greg waved his partners forward, and all three started down the hallway that ran straight ahead in front of them.

They moved quickly past several closed and locked doors to offices. The hallway opened up into the front lobby. Along the back wall of the lobby was the tellers' area, and behind and beyond that was the door to the vault. Greg moved quickly to the vault, while the Godfreys followed slow behind him, scanning the lobby nervously, incessantly, searching for the guard.

Vince walked up to the vault with Greg, who was reaching into his back pockets. Greg pulled out six small discs, four inches in diameter, with gray centers. He handed three to Vince and kept three to himself. Greg inserted his crowbar between the vault door and the steel wall, prying them apart just a fraction of an inch. Vince inserted three of the thin discs into the space between the door and the wall, and then took hold of the crowbar from Greg, continuing to apply pressure.

Greg pulled over a chair, stood on it, and slipped the other three discs in along the top of the vault door. He reached into his pocket and removed a long length of wire. Plastic plugs with thin metal connectors were attached to the wire every ten inches. Greg tossed one end of the wire down to Vince. The centers to the discs were plastique, malleable, and Greg and Vince inserted one of the plugs into the center of each one.

Stepping down, Greg looked expectantly to Vince, who responded by reaching into his pocket and removing a square black device, the face of which contained a dial, a charge meter, and a single button. Vince took the end of the wire and inserted it into the device. Both he and Greg stepped back from the vault as far as the wire would allow. Vince pushed the button.

The plastique within the centers of the six discs detonated in unison, and the vault door opened, swinging violently on its hinges. Vince disconnected the charger and pocketed it, and he followed Greg into the vault. Michael started in as well, but stopped and turned towards the front door at the sound of a jingling bell.

The bell was the one above the front entrance. Michael's eyes moved from the bell atop the door to the man standing in the open door, the man with black hair down to the base of his neck and a black eye mask on his face; the man with the wry, inexplicable grin.

Nightwing gave a wave. "Hey, fellas!" he called in a genial voice. He stepped inside the bank, followed by Robin. "Don't you feel stupid? Wasting all that energy breaking in the back when we forgot to lock the front. Not that I blame you for being ignoramuses."

Robin's hand went to his utility belt. It came back with a razor sharp throwing-R, and the R then flew fast across the room, landing and sticking in the top of Michael's gun hand. Michael dropped the gun.

Nightwing was in motion as soon as he saw that Robin's throw had been on the mark. He moved straight beside Michael, doubling him over with a kick to the stomach, then forcing him to the ground with an ax handle to the back.

Vince emerged from the vault, gun ready. He took a quick aim at Nightwing and rapidly fired three shots, all of them misses. Nightwing had ducked to the ground, and now he flung a throwing-wing up and into Vince's thigh.

Vince fell to one knee, clutching his wounded leg and grimacing in pain. The gun was pulled from his hand, and he felt a sharp pain in his head before he fell unconscious.

Nightwing vaulted over Vince, using the man's doubled-over body like a pommel horse and propelling himself into the vault, where he faced Greg. Greg fired off one shot from his snub-nosed pistol before Nightwing grabbed his wrist and forced it hard aside. Nightwing drove his fist up and into Greg's abdomen and then across his jaw, knocking him unconscious to the floor of the vault.

After tying Greg tight at the hands and feet, Nightwing grabbed Vince, drug him into the vault, and tied him up as well, leaning he and Greg back to back in the center of the floor. Walking out into the lobby, Nightwing saw that Robin had tied Michael securely and was in the process of dragging him into the vault to join his accomplices. Nightwing took hold of Michael's wrists from Robin and pointed back the hallway.

"Go let the guard out."

Robin walked back the hallway to the third locked office door he came to on his right. He took a key out of his utility belt, inserted it into the lock, and unlocked the door. The bank's night watchman, John Donnelly, 29, stepped cautiously out into the hall. He looked down the hall, and was reluctant to walk out into the hall. Robin gave him a gentle push on the back.

"Go on. We decided we'd let you call this one in," Robin said.

Donnelly walked out into the lobby and took grave and immediate notice of the blasted vault door. He paid no attention to the three tied-up would-be thieves that sat in the center of the vault, or to Nightwing, who was exiting the vault. Rather, he focused on the blackened and warped steel door frame. Ruined. Expensive. Donnelly put his hand to his forehead. "Oh, Christ . . ." He looked briefly at Nightwing, then back to the vault door. "Oh, Jesus Christ . . . you let them blow it!" The young guard pulled his look away from the vault and honed it on Nightwing, anger, fear and confusion in his eyes. "You let them blow the vault?"

Nightwing glanced at Robin for a moment, then regarded Donnelly with a shrug and a helpless smile. "I needed somewhere to put 'em," he said, indicating the three captured bank robbers that sat in the vault. "I thought the vault was kind of an ironic location." Donnelly looked at Nightwing with amazement, disbelief, eyes wide. Nightwing tilted his head curiously to the side. "You don't agree?"

Donnelly shook his head slowly. "No . . . no, I don't agree. Jesus, I let you lock me in the office because you said you were going to stop them from doing any damage!"

"They didn't take anything," Nightwing offered.

"They blew the fuckin' vault open! Christ, do you know what Mr. Davis is going to do to me when he hears about this? He's gonna have my job and my ass. Goddamn motherfuckers . . ."

Robin stood beside Donnelly now, and patted him on the back. "Come-on, sir. Just tell whoever asks that we forced you against your will to be locked in that office. You're not responsible for anything that happened here." Robin took the guard's right hand, opened it up, and placed in it the key to the office he'd been locked in.

"Besides," Nightwing said, turning to look at the vault, "this is a bank. If they can't afford to repair the vault, they can give themselves a loan."

Donnelly shook his head some more, putting his head in his hands.

Nightwing patted the man on the back, then turned and started briskly for the doors. He waved for Robin to follow him. "Time to hit the bricks. Don't forget to call the cops sometime, Mr. Donnelly."

In another few seconds, the bell above the door gave a final jingle, and Nightwing and Robin were gone. Donnelly stood motionless in front of the vault for a long moment, then walked behind the counter to one of the tellers stations and picked up the phone.

En Route to Gotham City Police Headquarters
1:06 a.m

Batman sat in the Batmobile, guiding it through the streets of the city just as he had thousands of nights before.

The city was cold, quiet. It was just outside, yet to Batman it was as distant as the stars. He wasn't in the car, he wasn't driving. He was twenty-five years in the past, ten years old, sitting at the kitchen table . . .

My mother and father were two days dead when the detective showed up at the house. Alfred told me he had been at the crime scene, but I didn't remember him at first. I had to think for a few moments before I recalled the image in my head, the image of the tall, hard-bitten old cop with a look of stone-cold professionalism as he regarded the blood, the death, the remnants of the night's unspeakable brutality before him.

After I remembered that image, I also remembered when I looked over at him from the squad car, and our eyes met, and for just a moment he lost the look of stone and looked at me as a human being, a deep sympathy in his eyes.

Alfred had had to struggle a little with me to get me out of bed on the day the detective came to the house. I was at the kitchen table when he came in and sat down next to me. Again, there was a sympathy in his face, a gentle look to him. He took out a pen and a pad of paper, flipped past what I thought must have been a thousand pages of notes until he found a blank page. He reached out his hand, and I looked back at Alfred, who was standing guard behind me. Alfred looked at the detective, then at me and nodded. I shook his hand.

"I'm Detective Harris, Bruce," he said in a quiet, understanding voice. I found out later that he never had children, but from the way he treated me that day, I think he would've made a good father. His questions were asked gently, almost apologetically.

"Did you see the man with the gun?"

Of course I did. I saw him. I saw what he did to my parents. I saw what he did to me.

"Did you see what he looked like? Can you tell me?"

Yes, I know what he looked like. How could I not? It's the face I see all the time, when I close my eyes, whenever I have a quiet moment. Every square inch of the man's face, burned in my consciousness forever. Even now, if I saw him I'd know that instant who I was looking at. But, how could I describe it to Detective Harris? I was ten years old. For all I knew, I'd give the man a vague, undetailed description that would be no help at all. The embodiment of evil. That's what he looked like.

But, I didn't say that.

Detective Harris left after a few minutes. He spoke to Alfred, patted me on the head, and walked out the door. Even then, I knew that I wasn't much help. But he smiled at me as he put on that rumpled old fedora he wore and walked out of the kitchen. He smiled at me anyway.

Swinging above the rooftops on polymer line. He took no conscious pleasure from it, although from an objective perspective Batman could see why Robin and Nightwing found this mode of travel so exhilarating. He fired his first grapple off, and it latched with security onto the railing of a balcony high up on the side of a sky-scraping apartment building.

Batman swung off the rooftop, the grappling gun retracting the cord as he arched downward, and then up. When his swing reached its apex, he cut his first line loose, replaced the grappling gun in his utility belt, and pulled and flung off a batarang, another length of polymer line trailing from it--all of this while hanging momentarily in mid-air, the fleeting instant before the start of freefall.

Via his batarang-and-line method, Batman was on the roof of Police Headquarters in just under ten minutes. He took his time. If he was in a hurry, pushing himself, he could've made it in half that time. But, there was no need for haste. The murder weapon wasn't going anywhere.

The knife used to kill Harvey Harris was in an evidence locker in the basement of Police Headquarters. There was a small window close to the ceiling just large enough to accommodate a man, and Batman entered the room through there just as he had countless times before.

The knife was held in locker #3131, near the back of the room. The lockers were secured by flat iron clasps that locked and unlocked with a key. It took less than two seconds for Batman to pick the lock and take out the knife, wrapped in its protective plastic evidence bag. It was obvious that the knife had already been dusted for prints from the black powder residue in the bag. From the look of things, no prints had been found.

The knife had a fine, ornate, ceremonial look to it. Its blade was long, shiny, curved slightly. There was a finely-etched swirl pattern on the side of the blade as well. The handle was large, made of expertly carved marble. A unique piece. Tracing the sale would be a simple matter.

Satisfied for the moment, and with the details of the knife committed to memory, Batman left the evidence room.

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
9:56 a.m.

Ben Cone, Detective Second Grade, walked into a room full of empty desks.

He looked around, standing hesitantly at the door. He was the first one here, on his first day of work. As Detective Cone shrugged off his overcoat, he remembered what his wife had told him before he left the house. "Don't try too hard to make a good impression," she'd said. He wasn't. At 52nd Precinct Homicide, where he had worked for his entire career previously, he always arrived at this time. Or about this time, anyway.

Cone finished hanging up his coat, then lingered. What else could he do? He stood still and waited for one of his colleagues to arrive so they could tell him what the hell he was supposed to do.

There were six desks here. Detective Cone counted them, one-by-one, over and over again until he finally turned at the sound of another man's footsteps. The man was a tall, well-built Black man in his mid-thirties, a goatee grown and trimmed thin around his mouth. He smiled at Cone, and hung up his coat. "Hi," he said. "Can I help you with something?"

Detective Cone extended his hand. "I'm Ben Cone, just transferred over from 52nd Precinct Homicide."

The other detective's eyes brightened with recognition, and he shook Cone's hand. "Oh, yeah. Good to meet you. I'm Mackenzie Bock. Our lieutenant told us we'd be getting a few new guys."

"Oh yes?"

Bock nodded. "Yeah, and I for one couldn't be happier. There've only been four of us for the last few months in here. We could sure use the help." Bock started for one of the desks.

Cone looked around the squad room, running a modest hand over his bald head. "I'll do what I can." Looking beyond Bock's left shoulder, Cone saw a tall blonde man walk into the squad room. He brushed past Bock and Cone and started towards an office door on the other side of the room.

Detective Bock sat down at his desk. "Morning, El Tee."

The blonde man began taking off his overcoat and turned around, glancing at Bock. "Good morning, Mackenzie." His eyes then moved to Cone. "Detective Cone?"

Cone nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I'm Lieutenant Kitch. How long have you been with the force?"

"Seventeen years altogether."

"Then you don't have to call me sir. That's your desk right over there, if you want to get settled in." Kitch pointed to a desk in the center of the room, next to Bock's. Kitch then pointed to Bock. "That's Detective Bock. Everyone else should be here pretty soon." Kitch turned and started into his office. "When you get all settled in, come see me in my office." He walked inside and closed the door.

Detective Cone sat down at his new desk and leaned over his chair slightly to watch the doorway. In a few seconds, a statuesque woman who looked to be of Mexican ancestry, her long black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, walked in. She took notice of Cone immediately, smiled at him before she turned to hang up her coat. She walked across the room, behind Cone, and sat down at her desk, which was across the one directly beside Cone's. "You must be our first transfer," she said as she sat down.

"Detective Ben Cone," he said, nodding.

"Rene� Montoya."

"Hey, Ben, nice to meet ya," came a lazy voice from behind Cone, flavored with a heavy New York accent. Cone turned to see a big, overweight man in his early forties approaching, extending his beefy hand. "Harvey Bullock."

"Good to meet you. Ben Cone," Cone said, shaking Bullock's hand. Bullock then walked back over and sat down at the desk across from Bock, pushing his chair away and putting his big feet up on top of the desk.

The last of the detectives to arrive was a smaller, fit-looking Asian man, who was the only one not to enter wearing an overcoat. He wore a light, black leather jacket instead, and kept it on as he sat down at his desk, across from Montoya. He looked over at Cone and offered his hand. "Hi, you're the new guy?"

Cone smiled and nodded as he shook the man's hand. "Ben Cone."

The Asian man nodded as he took back his hand. "Kevin Soong. Welcome to Major Crimes."

The door to Lieutenant Kitch's office opened, and Kitch stepped one foot outside. "Ben? Come in here for a minute."

Cone stood and walked into Kitch's office. "Don't let him talk you into going out with his brother," Bullock called before the door to the office closed, smiling widely. "He'll break your heart."

Kitch closed the door, a faint smile on his lips. "My brother Darren is gay," he said as he made his way back around behind his desk, "that's what all that was about. They know I'm pretty okay with it, so they take advantage of the situation every now and then."

"I wasn't really too concerned about it."

"That's good, I guess. Why not? Is your taste too good?"

Cone chuckled lightly. "No, no. My taste is as bad as anyone else's, I guess. It's just cop humor, that's all. I'm used to it. It's part of life."

Kitch sat down behind his desk, smoothing his tie. Cone started to sit down in a chair in front of the desk, but Kitch spoke up. "You don't have to sit down, I won't keep you in here that long."

Cone moved and stood behind the chair. "Thank you. No offense, but I've never liked offices."

"Really? What would you do if you were promoted to lieutenant, then?"

"They tried to promote me to lieutenant when I was in Homicide. I didn't accept."

"More of a hands-on guy, huh?"

"I guess so."

Kitch laid his palm flat on the surface of his desk, tapping his fingers absently for a moment. He took in a sudden breath. "Well, I said I wouldn't keep you too long. Ben, you're going to be the odd man out for awhile. At least until I get my sixth man. We're due one more, but he's busy with a case at present. At least that's what I'm told."

Cone nodded. "So, I don't have a partner yet."

"No, not yet. So, I'll want you to take this time to triple up with Montoya and Soong, or Bullock and Bock. Just to see how it's done." Kitch realized what he'd said, and immediately backed up. "To see how it's done here, I mean. I respect your . . . ?"

"Seventeen years."

". . . your seventeen years of service, but, as I'm sure you'll find, things are a little different at Major Crimes."

Office of Police Commissioner James Gordon
11:06 a.m.

Gordon had just walked through the door, a fresh mug of coffee in his hand, when the phone on his desk rang. He sat down, put down his mug, and looked at the phone. The call was coming in on Line 7.

Gordon picked up the handset and opened up the line. "Yes?"

"I was in the evidence room last night," said a familiar, low voice. "I'm running a trace on the knife."

"That's good thinking. I haven't heard anything from Kitch on the investigation, but that is the logical first step so I assume--"

"I was hoping that you and your men would take it easy on this one. I'd like to have it to myself."

Gordon lifted his mug and took a cautious sip of the hot coffee, then smacked his lips and shook his head. "No, absolutely not. If this were a petty crime, I might be able to get by telling them to ease up."

"I can get to the killer faster than your men can. You saw the note. The killer wanted me to find the body. He wants me."

"The victim here is the most renowned detective ever to work on this police force. And, if I tell my men to do anything less than pursue this case full steam ahead, the mayor will hang me out the window."

There was a silence from the other end of the line. Gordon couldn't even hear him breathing. Then, he took a breath. "Tell Kitch to give it to Soong. And Cone, his transfer."

Gordon raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "That'd still be pushing it. Bullock and Bock are the obvious choices for this case."

"Soong is a fine detective, and Cone's record indicates that he's even better. But, of all the detectives in Major Crimes, I'd rather they take this."

"Why is that?"

"Because they have the least chance of getting there before I do." The line clicked, then went dead.

Gordon hung up Line 7, then opened up Line 1, which was free, and dialed a four-digit extension.

Kitch filled his mug almost to the top with water from the cooler, took a small sip, then started back into his office. He glanced at Bullock and Bock's desks briefly as he walked. Both men were seated there, Bullock staring at an open manila folder and its contents, Bock talking into the phone.

"How's it going, Harvey?"

Bullock turned at the sound of Kitch's voice, shrugging, not looking optimistic. "Got this guy on the phone, said he witnessed the crime we're lookin' at. He said this three days ago, and we just now got him on the phone. Got a busy signal or twenty rings the last three days."

Kitch nodded towards Bock. "Making any headway?"

Bock rolled his eyes up in Kitch's direction and shook his head slowly.

There was a ringing sound. Bullock looked around, then honed in on Kitch's office. "Think that's your phone, El Tee."

"Oh . . . right." Kitch turned and walked straight away into his office, closing the door. He took another sip of water, then picked up the phone. "Kitch here."

"It's Gordon."

A faint smile crept over Kitch's face. "Gordon Shumway? Wasn't that Alf's real name?"

"I never watched that show."

"Count yourself lucky. What's going on?"

"I'm giving the Harris murder to you in Major Crimes."

"I expected as much. When can I expect the case file to come over from Homicide?"

"I'll have everything for you later today, hopefully. Who do you think you'll be assigning it to?"

"Probably Bullock and Bock. They're my top guys."

A silence. "I'd like you to let Soong and Cone have it, actually."

Kitch almost laughed. He didn't, though. As he continued to speak to Commissioner Gordon on the phone, he glanced out the window of his office, looking at Cone sitting at his desk. "Commissioner, with all due respect to Cone's years of service, this would be his first Major Crimes case."

"There are no minor cases that make it to your squad, Lieutenant Kitch. Besides, Cone's background is in Homicide, and this case is one."

"And Soong? I mean, he's a fine detective, but he and Montoya have been working mostly heists lately."

"Make Soong the secondary. Look, Kitch, this isn't a direct order. It's just a suggestion. When you got bumped up to Major Crimes as a detective, Lieutenant Essen had to let you have a case that ended up being your shot, didn't she?"

"I suppose so, sir. Yes."

"The Harris case is Soong and Cone's chance, their big break, their shot to prove how indispensable they are to your unit. I think you should give them that chance. If they truly botch the case, you can always swap with Bullock and Bock. I'd expect you to, in fact."

Kitch took a deep breath, let it out slow. "Yes sir," he said with resignation. "It's Soong and Cone's case."

"Thank you, Samuel. I'll make sure that case file is transferred over to you today."

"Thank you, sir." The line went dead, and Kitch hung up the phone.

He stood from his desk and walked slowly around it, moving for the door. He turned the doorknob and walked out into the squad room to give his detectives the news. How they would take it was anyone's guess. Kitch wasn't even sure how he was taking it.

Beneath Wayne Manor
12:09 p.m.

The image of Barbara Gordon, the Oracle, was alive on one of the computer console's smaller side-monitors. Oracle's look was towards an off-screen computer, and Bruce could hear the sounds of her fingers typing, dancing expertly from key to key.

Bruce put his fist against his chin, and his eyes narrowed.

"Hang-on, Bruce, I'm almost there," Oracle said, continuing to type.

Bruce shifted his eyes casually from the image of Oracle to the monitor directly above it, which displayed the Channel 8 News at Noon, with anchorperson Debra Dorning.

"Gothamites all over the city are joining the police department in mourning the death of Harvey Harris today. Harris, renowned by many as the world's greatest detective, was found murdered late yesterday at his farm outside of the city. Police report no suspects as of yet, but assure us they are pursuing the case as best they can at present."

Oracle stopped typing, smiled at her computer screen triumphantly. "Got it, Bruce."

Bruce held up his hand, continued to watch the news on the upper monitor. "Just a moment."

"Although none of the detectives familiar with the case were available for comment, City Councilman Arthur Reeves, who has always worked closely with Police Commissioner Gordon and the department, has been more than gracious enough to join us here on News at Noon to offer his knowledge and insight on the case, and the investigation up to this point.

Eyes narrowed again, like a bird of prey, Bruce watched as the news camera switched to a split-screen image, one of Debra Dorning in the News 8 studio, another of Councilman Arthur Reeves, from his private office in Roxbury. Reeves displayed his trademark manufactured public relations smile.

"Thank you for making time to join us today, Councilman."

"My pleasure, Debra, always."

"Now, Councilman Reeves, what can you tell us about the investigation into the death of Mr. Harris? How are things progressing so far?"

"Well, remember, Debra, that things are still in the very early stages. And, I'll have to censor my comments, lest I give away any insights that might hinder and harm the investigation, as it is ongoing, and as I said, in the earliest stages.

"What can you tell us, Councilman? We've heard that the police have no suspects yet. Is there anyone they are looking at as someone who could possibly be responsible?"

"Well, no, Debra. If the police were looking at anyone in particular, then that would make whoever that was a suspect of their investigation, and as they quite honestly told you during their press conference this morning, they have no suspects."

"I see. What else can you tell us?"

"There is one thing I'd like to make light of, Debra, if I may. And that is--and please, don't take this as something it's not; I'm not trying to tell Commissioner Gordon how to do his job, but I really think that the police should be looking seriously at this city's vigilante element for their suspect."

"I assume when you say 'vigilante element' that you are referring to the Batman, of whom you have always been a vocal critic."

"Rest assured, Debra, that my personal feelings regarding this city's vigilante element have no bearing on my feelings on this matter. I just think it's more than a little odd that the murder was first reported to the police by the Batman, who is the most well-known and dangerous of this city's vigilante element."

Alfred stepped off the bottom step of the spiral stone staircase and started towards the computer console, a tray of toast, butter, and tea in his hands. Bruce switched off the monitor that displayed the news. "I thought you might take a bit of a snack, as lunch will be a few minutes late," Alfred explained.

Oracle's eyes brightened on the monitor. "Is that you, Alfred?"

Alfred nodded at the camera lens built into the frame of the monitor, smiling. "Indeed it is, Miss Gordon."

Bruce acknowledged Alfred with a look, and the butler stepped back from the console. He turned back to Oracle on the monitor. "What were you about to say before I stopped you?"

She checked her computer monitor. "That knife was bought by a Daniel Furlong. He lives downtown, but more importantly, he operates a pawn shop on Eighty-second Street. And, the shop is licensed to sell antique or collectable knives."

Bruce nodded. "I'll follow that up tonight."

Oracle smiled. "You're welcome."

Bruce switched off the monitor and stood from his chair. He took two pieces of toast from the tray Alfred brought, and started for the elevator at the edge of the plateau.

"Did you happen to see the distinguished city councilman's interview on the news several minutes ago, sir?" Alfred asked, walking to the center of the stone plateau.

Bruce took a small bite from one of the pieces of toast, turned to Alfred, and nodded slowly as he chewed. "Nothing too surprising," he said after he'd swallowed.

"I take it then that your plan is to ignore Mr. Reeves in favor of your single-minded pursuit of Detective Harris' killer?"

Bruce gave another nod and stepped onto the elevator. "Reeves is a non-concern," he said as the elevator started down.

Alfred walked to the edge of the plateau, looking down at Bruce as the elevator continued to descend towards the lower level. "Sir," he started in a loud voice, "while the councilman himself might not be a threat to the activities of the Batman, he is a man of influence. I do wish you would not treat him with such a casual attitude."

The elevator stopped, touching down on the Cave's lower plateau. Bruce walked off, starting across towards the gym. He stopped in mid-step and looked up at Alfred. "Let me handle this my way."

Alfred nodded, resigned, and turned away, starting back for the spiral staircase. "As always, sir."

Major Crimes Squad Room, Gotham City Police Headquarters
1:11 p.m.

Lieutenant Kitch left his office, a slip of paper held between the fingers of his right hand. He made his way to Cone's desk, where the detective sat on the phone.

Soong was at his desk as well, and took immediate notice of the paper in Kitch's hand. "What's that you've got there, Lieutenant?"

Kitch approached Soong and handed him the piece of paper. "I have no idea if this will help you two on this case or not, but I've been meaning to let you have this for awhile. I'll give another copy to Ben."

Soong looked over the paper. On it was written a name and address. He looked up at Kitch curiously.

"That's the name and address of one of my old informants."

"Ernest Dicer," Soong said, reading from the paper.

"Best snitch I ever had. I used him constantly when I was a detective, whenever I had to work a murder or a big-time heist. The guy's got his ear to every door in the city, it seems like sometimes."

Soong nodded and pocket the slip of paper. "Thank you, Lieutenant. We'll see if we can look into this."

Kitch gave a satisfied nod, then turned around to face Cone, who had just hung up his phone. "How's everything coming?" Kitch asked.

Cone shrugged, raising his eyebrows and leaning forward on his desk. "I just put out a trace on the murder weapon. We'll see what that turns up. Until then, I guess we're playing the waiting game. Unless you have any suggestions for us."

Kitch shook his head profusely. "No, no. It's your investigation." Kitch started back for his office. He stopped when he reached the door, looking back to Soong. "Kevin?"

"What, Lieutenant?"

"If you do talk to Dicer, make sure you tell him that he's always looked best in henna velvet."

Soong was absolutely perplexed, and understandably so. "Lieutenant?"

A smile came over him, and Kitch shook his head. "That's our code-phrase. Tell him he looks best in henna velvet, and he'll know you're on the up-and-up."

"Ah-ha," Soong remarked, understanding, although still a bit curious about the phrase itself. "Thank you. We'll look into it."

Kitch walked back into his office, and Soong walked back and sat down at his desk. He leaned backwards in his chair, looking over at Cone, who sat slouched in his chair, arms folded. All they could do now was wait.

Furlong Antiques and Collectibles
4275 82nd Street
4:48 p.m.

Detective Cone drove his 1990 Ciera up to the curb at the front entrance of the pawn shop. There were four consecutive parallel parking spaces along the front of the shop, allowing Cone to pull his car straight in. He unfastened his seatbelt and shifted the car into park, then glanced over to the passenger seat at Detective Soong.

"This is just fine. I hate parallel parking."

"Me too," Soong said, then turned his head and looked out the window at the front door of Furlong's pawn shop. "I barely got my license because of it."

Cone popped open his door and stepped out. He walked around and joined Soong, who exited the car and was standing on the sidewalk. "I can do it. I just don't like to."

"I haven't had to do it for a long time," Soong said as they started towards the door. "Cops are usually allowed to break more traffic laws than the average citizen." Cone stepped up to the door and pulled it open, allowing Soong to walk on inside. "I had to take my driver's test three times."

"Really?" Cone asked, incredulous. "I got it the first time. I snuck in just under the three minutes, though, on the parking."

The detectives looked around the pawn shop, a small rectangular room, walls lined with shelves containing ceramic figurines, glass lighting fixtures, and antique glassware. There was a glass counter, cash register on top and a large selection of collectible knives on display beneath. Also on the top of the counter was a small silver bell.

In the wall opposite the entrance was a doorway, the room behind it concealed by a curtain. Cone gave a shrug and rang the bell, tapping it two times rapidly. He reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat, feeling for his badge. "Mr. Furlong?" he called. "Mr. Furlong, could you come out here for a second please?"

Soong hung his hands in his jacket pockets and began slowly rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

The curtain was pushed aside. A young man--Cone estimated his age to be around 25 years--emerged, dressed casually in jeans and a tee-shirt, a button-up flannel shirt worn overtop. Blonde hair, close-cropped. The young man wore glasses and looked to be trying to grow a goatee. "Mr. Furlong doesn't work today. I'm Joel, one of his employees."

Cone found his badge in his pocket, brought it out, and showed it briefly to Joel, whose eyes widened at the sight.

"Is there a problem?" Joel asked, his voice suddenly lower, grave.

"You sell expensive knives here," Cone said, off the display beneath the counter.

"Yes sir," Joel answered, not seeming to follow.

Soong unzipped his jacket and reached into one of the inner pockets. He produced a Polaroid of the knife that killed Harvey Harris and handed it to Joel. "Did you sell that to anyone in the last few days?"

Joel looked at the Polaroid, recognition evident in his eyes. He began to nod. "Yeah. Yeah, maybe. This is like, a limited edition model that we keep here. We've still got some like this."

"Could you check and see who bought knives like these recently?" Cone asked.

"Sure," Joel said, walking behind the counter. "It'd have to be recent, since we only got those knives like a month ago, and we haven't sold all that many."

Cone nodded. "Check for me, please."

Joel turned around and pulled a large three-ring binder out from the bottom level of a shelf behind the counter. An inventory list. "Yeah," Joel said, turning a page and nodding. "'The Sentinel'; we've still got five of them in stock, but not on display. We just sold our first one on Saturday."

"To who?"

"Whoa, are you guys lucky."

Cone and Soong both folded their arms and regarded each other curiously, then turned to Joel. "Why is that?" Soong asked.

"Well, see, normally Mr. Furlong doesn't keep really precise records for purchases. But, this dude used an American Express. We do keep credit card records with addresses and phone numbers."

"Terrific," Cone said, deadpan. "Can we have a copy of that man's address and name, please?"

Joel pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil and began copying the information down. "Oh, yeah, I remember this guy now. Trace Corbett. Weird damn name, huh?"

Neither detective displayed any response.

"Yeah. Opal City. He said he was a tourist. Like, visiting for the weekend. His father collects collectible knives." Joel stopped writing a moment and looked up at the detectives, who stood there waiting with fleeting patience. He resumed writing. "At least, that's what the guy said. I dunno. Coulda been full of it."

When Joel was done writing, Cone reached over and tore the paper off the pad himself, folding it once and stuffing it in his inner overcoat pocket. Both he and Detective Soong turned and started for the door. "Thanks for all your help," Cone said, his tone wet with sarcasm.

When they were back in the car, Cone hung his key in the ignition and turned to Soong. "When I worked Homicide, I used to have this partner who was the primary on almost all of our cases. His name was Kyle Tyler, and he used to get so ticked off when people would waste time and procrastinate when you asked them for information, like that kid did in there."

"What would he do? Would he yell at the guy, or something?"

Cone shook his head. "No. He'd grit his teeth until we got back to the car, then he'd unload it all and start yelling at me. He'd vent all over me."

Looking out the window as Cone started the car and pulled out onto the street, a smile spread over Soong's face. "I'm glad you don't take after your partner."

Centennial Music Tower
11:47 p.m.

Nightwing dropped onto the roof of the tower, Gotham's third-largest building, releasing the end of his polymer line and letting it drift invisibly back into the dark. Batman was already here, Robin as well, both standing across the roof on the other side, looking out across the city.

Batman turned around and started in Nightwing's direction. Robin followed, a few steps behind. "I'll need you two to handle the patrols through at least Eastlyn and Roxbury tonight. Perhaps more. I'll be in touch if there's to be any change of plans." Batman continued on, walking past Nightwing to the other edge of the roof, stepping one leg up on the metal safety railing.

Robin walked up to stand beside Nightwing, who had turned to face Batman and folded his arms across his chest. "Where are you going?"

Batman turned his head slightly in Nightwing's direction, then back around to look straight down the side of the building. Most people would find the steep view from atop the Centennial Tower quite dizzying. It still caused Robin to have to step back at times. "I'm following up a lead."

"On the Harris murder," Nightwing said confidently, stating what he was certain was a fact.

Batman reached into his cape and pulled his grappling gun. He lowered it at a slightly downward-pointing angle and fired off a grapple, polymer line trailing behind it down into the night. "If you run into any trouble, contact me." Those his final words, Batman grasped the line and swung off the roof.

Robin walked to the southernmost edge of the circular roof and fired off his own grapple. He turned to Nightwing. "Spanish-American Avenue is closest," he said, "I guess we might as well start there.

Nightwing nodded in agreement, pulled his grappling gun, and moved to join the Boy Wonder.

Tuesday
Furlong Antiques and Collectibles
4275 82nd Street
12:10 a.m.

The front door, back door, and windows were all locked. It took Batman four seconds to open all three expensive locks that secured the back door. He stepped inside and found himself in a small square room, dark, cluttered with shelves and boxes, a small metal desk against one wall, beneath a window. An office.

Batman was standing opposite a doorway that was draped from top to bottom in a curtain. He brushed the curtain aside, stepped through into the other side. The pawn shop, wall-to-wall with antiques, collectibles, and novelty junk. Batman's eyes searched the dark room from where he stood, and caught almost immediate notice of a pad of paper on top of the counter, beside the cash register.

There was writing on the top page of the pad: J - L

Batman turned and walked back through the curtain. He found a light switch on the wall, to the left of the doorway, and flipped it on. The room brightened, and Batman could see clearly a row of three-drawer filing cabinets along the wall to the left of the desk. One of the drawers was labeled "J - L".

Opening the drawer, Batman felt his jaw tighten a bit. Any files that had been in here had been cleared away, and in their place was the head of a young man. Batman picked it up with both hands, holding it lightly in his palms. Blonde hair, the beginnings of a goatee around his mouth, Batman estimated his age to be in the mid-twenties.

Batman tilted the man's head slightly to get a look at the neck. The throat had been cut cleanly. In fact, the entire severing of the head had been an expert operation, conducted precisely, with a sharp knife. The young man seemed to have offered no struggle. The eyes and mouth were closed. He was most likely unconscious when he was beheaded. No bruises or cuts. There was the faint, lingering scent of ether. Chloroform. He was smothered, but probably not to death.

The man's jaw popped open. Batman's head drew back slightly at first, the result of a reflex that, despite all his efforts, he couldn't completely suppress. There were springs cemented to the man's top and bottom molars, and a small rubber balloon stuffed down the back of his throat. Batman saw them both before he felt the head slip from his hands.

An instant after the head hit the ground with a sound thump, Batman himself was there. Unconscious.

?????

Nothing but black all around.

Batman had to blink his eyes several times to assure himself that they indeed were open.

He took a moment, concentrated, drew back into his mind, found his internal timing device. It was 1:53 a.m. He was still groggy, but could feel immediately that he was sitting in a wooden chair, tied tightly at the hands and feet. He was still wearing his cape and cowl, but his gloves had been removed, and his chest and his legs felt bare.

The all-surrounding darkness was pierced suddenly. Batman squeezed his eyes shut, throwing his head back and to the side in a violent motion, grimacing at the sudden shock. His eyes adjusted quickly to the intense brightness. He was in a square room, bare light-colored walls, no windows. There was no door visible to him now, but the area behind the light was still dark. There was a large spotlight sitting directly in front of him, six feet away at the most, its heat bearing down on him. Batman felt the temperature of his flesh begin to rise.

He looked down at himself and saw that, besides the cape and cowl, he was wearing only a pair of silk boxer shorts, white with large red polka dots.

"Darling . . ."

Batman's entire being stiffened, his head jerked up abruptly, his eyes staring at the darkness behind the light. The voice was painfully familiar, flavored with a dark insanity, a cold sense of expectation.

A tall, thin figure, clad in purple and green, stepped out from behind the light. His flesh was chalk-white, and his face bore a sickening grin that displayed pale yellow teeth. His hands were clasped calmly in front of him, and he regarded Batman in the chair with barely-suppressed, potentially feverish joy.

Batman's mouth curved downward into a dark, angry scowl. He gritted his teeth.

"Welcome to my humble commode," the Joker said. "I'm so glad you could make it."