BATMAN: The New Continuity

Where the hell was the HDCT Saturday, for Christ's sake?

The Heavy-Duty Criminal Transport vehicle pulled into the lot behind the asylum, and Commissioner Gordon's eyes followed it the whole way. He stood at the entrance to the roundhouse wing, hands in his overcoat pockets. The HDCT backed up to the door; it made the same beeping noise that oversize trucks made when they ran in reverse.

Harvey Dent was in a straight-jacket, and a thick leather muzzle was strapped tight over his twisted mouth. His legs were shackled at the ankles. Three of Gordon's cops stepped out of the back of the vehicle along with Dent, one on either side of him and one behind him, all close in. The four-man entourage moved past Gordon into the building. "Slocombe and Ipson, you two stay outside his cell once he's back in there," Gordon ordered as they moved inside; Slocombe and Ipson were the two officers beside Dent.

Gordon remained outside. The driver of the Heavy-Duty hopped out of the cab and walked around to close the doors in the back. Gordon watched him without a word for a few seconds. "Busy on Saturday?" Gordon asked as the driver, a cop whose name-tag read Norton, was making his way back to the driver's seat.

Norton paused a moment, turned back to look at Gordon. "I worked first-shift that day, sir; I was off that night."

"You're the regular driver for the H-D-C-T, Norton?" Gordon asked him.

"Myself, or Officer Vernon."

Gordon brought his fist to his mouth as he coughed. "Where was Officer Vernon Saturday night?"

"I believe he worked first-shift as well, sir," Norton answered. He looked to the side, seeming to think for a moment. "Yeah, he did�I remember. I saw him."

"Are you aware of where the H-D-C-T was while you and Officer Vernon were off, Officer Norton?"

Norton shook his head. "No, sir, I'm not. I'm not apprised of the vehicle's whereabouts unless I'm needed to drive it, and I don't go out of my way to keep track." Officer Norton glanced behind him toward the open driver's-side door, then back at Gordon. "With all respect, sir, is this going somewhere?"

Gordon shook his head. "I won't be getting there through you, Officer. . . . You work at Headquarters, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

Gordon nodded. "Then get back to work. We probably won't speak about this again." Officer Norton gave a respectful nod to the Commissioner of Police, turned around, and climbed into the cab of the HDCT. Gordon watched the Heavy-Duty as it pulled away from the asylum. When it was beyond the back parking lot, Gordon turned and walked into the roundhouse.

12:10 p.m.

Oswald Cobblepot was seated in his office at the asylum. It was not his favorite place. It was necessary, though, to be here; Groverton had reminded him of that six times before he left the penthouse above the casino this morning. Two-Face was being returned to his room at New Arkham, and Commissioner Gordon had made it explicitly clear to the media waiting for him at Police Headquarters upon his arrival there several hours ago that he fully intended to be present when Two-Face was transferred back to the asylum.

As Groverton had predicted, Commissioner Gordon was outside the office now. When Oswald had spoken to his receptionist over the speakerphone, he noticed he'd been pausing a bit longer between his sentences than usual.

"Should I show him in?" the receptionist asked over the speakerphone.

"Yes," Oswald said, "show him in." He punched off the phone and stood up behind his desk, tugging his jacket straight. The door opened and Commissioner Gordon walked in. He hadn't taken his overcoat off in the lobby. When Oswald indicated a chair in front of the desk and invited Gordon to sit, he didn't sit. Gordon just stood in front of the desk and slipped his hands into his overcoat pockets.

"Harvey Dent killed seventeen people," he announced, glaring at Oswald from behind those thin-rimmed glasses of his. "No one wants to accept full responsibility for it, but no one has had any problem blaming the other guy so far."

Oswald was getting a tense, smoldering stare from across the desk. He returned it firmly for a few seconds, then took a step back and sat down. Granting his adversary a physical advantage, but continuing to hold control of the conversation�Oswald could do it in his sleep. "Oh?" he said, interested, as though a moment ago was the first he'd heard of that which Gordon spoke.

Gordon glared down at Oswald. "Most of the blame's gone to me so far," he said. "And to be honest, I deserve it. I dropped the ball�I made a lethal mistake."

"I do think you're being too hard on yourself, Commissioner," Oswald offered casually. "There's plenty of blame to go around."

He saw Gordon's jaw tighten. He shook his head curtly. "No, it's all mine. The mistake I made wasn't last night, though; it was earlier this year when I first let this madhouse pass into the hands of someone like you."

Oswald looked down at his desk and folded his hands across his stomach. "Careful, Commissioner. You're this close to offending my tender sensibilities," he said, holding up his right hand, the thumb and forefinger held a half-inch or so apart.

"The last man killed in Karsted last night was Jacob Arken. He knew Harvey Dent, and he knew you. And anyone with half a brain knows that you two couldn't have exactly liked each other anymore."

"How so, Commissioner?" Oswald asked, respectfully.

"Don't you dare insult me. . . . You mind telling me how you managed to transfer one of the country's most dangerous criminals from a maximum security asylum to a country mental hospital on the same night where nobody seemed to know where the H-D-C-T was?"

Oswald met Gordon's eyes again. "I'd think the status of that vehicle would be your department, Commissioner."

The commissioner gritted his teeth and stared at Oswald for a moment, as angry as Oswald had ever seen him and yet unable to do a thing about it. It was a delightful moment, really. Oswald found he had to fight to suppress the smile that threatened to overtake his face. "Those seventeen people's deaths belong as much to you as they do to Harvey Dent. I know you don't give a damn about that�"

"You're wrong," Oswald interrupted calmly.

"Am I?" Gordon asked pointedly as he turned to leave the office. "Then explain his coin." That was all Gordon said. He opened the door, walked outside, and slammed it shut after him.

Oswald was about to call out that he didn't know what Gordon was talking about, but decided not to.

13142 Mountain Drive
Gotham Heights
1:17 p.m.

Dick looked down at the single suitcase in complete disbelief. Then, his gaze went up from the suitcase to Lilhy. "This is all?" He looked back down at the case, and then up again a second later. He said "Just this one," as though he didn't believe the words as he spoke them.

"Why do you seem so . . . ?" Lilhy didn't even finish her thought. She didn't have to, really; the tone and the strange look she was giving Dick were enough to put the message over.

"It's nothing," he explained as he knelt down a bit to pick up the single suitcase. "I've just never seen a popular female stereotype shattered so blatantly before."

Lilhy was still regarding him with strange curiosity. "Women traditionally carry more luggage than that?"

Dick gave an exaggerated nod. "Oh, yes. A lot, lot more if you believe the average American situation comedy."

"Ah," Lilhy said, nodding. "They do seem prone to . . . hyperbole, from what I've seen."

They left the living room, stepping outside and starting toward the van parked in the driveway. Alfred was there, waiting in the driver's seat. Dick could barely make out a song on the radio�instrumental, piano, sounded like something from Henry Mancini. "Oh?" Dick said to Lilhy, who was walking just behind him. "Which sitcoms do you watch?"

"I don't often watch them," Lilhy explained. "I prefer to read, most of the time."

Dick nodded to himself. "That's understandable."

Lilhy didn't say anything for a bit. "Because I come from the Order, where we have no television?" she asked after the silence.

"No," said Dick, "because of the overriding quality of most television." They reached the van. Dick pulled open the back doors and lifted her suitcase inside, adding "Most of it sucks," with a minor grunt as he hefted the case. Dick closed the doors and turned to her.

"When I have watched television these past months, I've seen several episodes of 'Family Matters', as well as another one . . . a very unusual show about a domesticated witch," Lilhy said. Dick was impressed she'd even remembered his question; so many people (especially women�and he knew how sexist that observation was) had such short memories when it came to conversation. He decided then and there that she would be fun to talk to during this trip. Anything to make the time pass more easily between here and the Cathedral.

"'Bewitched'?" he offered. "And 'Family Matters'? . . . Wow." He laughed weakly. "You poor thing. . . . Damn, that's some bad television�even for bad television."

Lilhy shrugged and looked up at him�she was a few inches shorter than Dick. "Perhaps when we get back, you can recommend some better shows."

Dick nodded affirmatively. "I'd consider it nothing less than a personal favor, from me to you." He looked past her, at the house. "You should go say good-bye to everyone now. We've gotta get going."

She nodded, turned, and started back for the house. Dick ended up watching her walk most of the way, but kept trying not to. She was wearing a pair of bluejeans, a lightweight black blouse, and her shoes were these cute little brown leather boots. She looked like she had an absolutely phenomenal body, too. But, Dick tried not to think about it. He made himself look away from her just before she disappeared into the house. He closed up the back of the van and walked around to the passenger-side of the cab. He and Lilhy had a long way to go and a lot to do, and they had to work together�work.

Dick leaned into the open passenger side window and looked in on Alfred. "What is that?" he asked. Alfred looked at him for clarification. Dick nodded at the radio.

"Ah," Alfred said. "It's the theme from 'Romeo and Juliet'."

"Mancini."

Alfred nodded.

"I knew it," Dick declared. "I knew it was Mancini, I just didn't recognize it."

"Do you know his music?"

Dick shook his head. "No, not really. I didn't think you did, either."

Alfred took a breath. "I don't normally listen to such a recent composer, but"�Alfred indicated the radio�"I saw the Zeffirelli film several days ago for the first time in ages and was struck by the score, and remembered I had this C-D."

Dick nodded, then stopped in mid-nod and regarded Alfred suspiciously. "What do you mean you don't listen to 'such a recent composer'? You are so into The Beatles that I'd be seriously shocked if I didn't find a hate letter to Yoko somewhere in your history."

"That's entirely different," Alfred insisted. "When it comes to instrumental music, such as this,"�he pointed to the radio again�"most of the finer pieces were written before the turn of the century."

"Ah-ha," Dick said, nodding slowly, wearing a slight smile. "You prefer Wagner and Schubert to Copeland and Bernstein."

A grimace came over Alfred's face, as if Dick had just shoved a spoonful of Robitussin in his mouth. "Oh, not Wagner, no. He's far too blatant for my tastes. His work reminds me of Tchaikovsky and that awful '1812 Overture'." Alfred shuddered, apparently at the very thought of the 1812 Overture. He looked across the seat at Dick. "I much prefer the more subtle works of Mozart, and Samuel Barber�although, he's a Twentieth Century composer as well."

Dick shook his head and put a look of quiet awe on his face as he gazed at Alfred. "You are such a Renaissance man. I mean it. You really are."

Alfred's detection of the insincerity poorly hidden beneath Dick's voice was instantaneous, of course. He showed Dick a knowing (and slightly amused, from the look of it) smirk for a moment, then turned away from him and looked toward the house. Dick looked too: Lilhy had emerged from the front door and was on her way back to the van. Dick took a step away from the van door and put one hand on the handle.

"Miss Lilhy will have the front seat?" Alfred asked.

"Yep," Dick said, nodding as he watched Lilhy approaching. He turned to Alfred and grinned faintly. "English of me, idn't it?"

"Indeed," Alfred said. "Though I would normally shun such a stereotype, however complimentary," he added after a few moments.

Lilhy came around the front of the van to Dick, and he opened the door for her. He shut the door once she was inside. As she pulled her seatbelt across her chest, Dick gave Alfred a narrow-eyed glance and told her "He'll try to talk you into a few glasses of wine followed by sex, but don't listen to a word he says." Alfred was trying to suppress a small grin as he turned the key and started the engine. Dick was grinning, and not fighting it at all. "He'll just break your heart in the morning," he warned Lilhy, "Take it from me." Dick started toward the back of the van, letting his hand linger on the window of the door for a moment. He saw Lilhy give Alfred a curious look before he went.

Office of Commissioner Gordon
Gotham City Police Headquarters
1:42 p.m.

Gordon had thought about unplugging the phone on his desk, just to eliminate the possibility of distraction, but opted against it finally after debating with himself for about five minutes. He mentally validated his decision when, suddenly restless after a check of his watch, he picked up the phone and called the sergeant's desk on the first floor.

"Yes?" came the answer in a young-sounding man's voice.

"This isn't Sergeant Cooper," Gordon said. "Who is this?"

"You're speaking with Sergeant Edmunds, sir. What can I do for you?"

Gordon leaned forward on his desk, switching the phone from the left side of his face to the right. "Sergeant Cooper is scheduled to be behind the desk from eight to four today. Why isn't he?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but he approached me this morning and asked if, instead of going out today, I could fill-in for him during his shift at the desk today."

"Did he clear this with anyone?"

"Well . . . no, sir, he didn't. . . . I know how improper it is, but we do this sort of thing pretty often."

"'Improper' isn't the word for it, Sergeant. From now on, all shift changes will be run by myself personally, and no one else. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. But, I feel like I should assert that�sir, we've never had any problems with this practice before . . ."

"Perhaps not, Sergeant, but you are police officers, employees of this city. You do not get to make your own schedules. . . . Understood, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

Gordon rolled his eyes and started nodding to himself. "Good. Now, can you tell me where Sergeant Cooper is?"

"He said to me that he'd be going home. I think it's his son's birthday today. I could be wrong, but I think that was it."

Gordon sighed heavily. "All right, then, Sergeant." He hung up the phone without another word, and pulled off his glasses, laying them on the desk. Gordon lowered his face into the palms of his two hands. He rubbed his eyes gently with his fingertips for a bit, then put his glasses back on.

He picked up his phone and speed-dialed Gloria, in the lobby just beyond his office door. Gloria's voice had a surprised sound to it when she answered, asking Gordon immediately "What, are you psychic?"

Gordon thought, for the briefest, most fleeting of moments, about asking Gloria what the hell she was talking about. He didn't, though. He waited for Gloria to clarify herself. She didn't say anything for about three long seconds.

"I was just going to buzz you."

"I need you to find out where Sergeant Henry Cooper lives," Gordon told her, moving ahead with why he called her in the first place. "He works in this building. Get me his phone number, too. . . . What were you calling me about?"

Gloria hesitated a moment. A faint noise came over the line, probably her clearing her throat. "It's a Miss Diane Christi."

"'Mrs.', actually," said another woman over the line, who sounded like she was a few feet away from the phone.

"Mrs. Diane Christi," Gloria corrected.

Gordon turned away from the speakerphone for a moment so that the long, heavy sigh he let out wouldn't be heard by the two women in the lobby. He turned back to face the phone, and pulled his glasses off of his face. "Well, then show her right in, Gloria," he said, then put his glasses back on and looked at the door.

Diane Christi entered the room, a tall, light-blonde, ever-so-slightly plump woman of forty-one. She carried an obviously full brown business envelope in her right arm. Gordon didn't even have to think before he knew what must've been in it. Mrs. Christi walked up to the desk, affording Gordon a polite, professional, thoroughly lawyer-like smile. He indicated the chair in front of his desk for her to sit. She sat. Gordon never stood to greet her.

"Commissioner," Mrs. Christi said cordially as she sat. Gordon regarded her quietly from his chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. The smile he wore was pleasant, and completely false�he hoped she could tell. "I think we can skip over my purpose for coming here, correct?"

"Oh, I suppose." The superficial pleasantry of Gordon's smile was present in his voice as well. He kept that smile on, and blinked at her in silence for a short time. He felt his chest rise as he inhaled. "Say your piece, Mrs. Christi." The pleasantry was still there when he said it, but now there was also an impatience, an intolerance of her presence that undermined the courteous tone of voice.

Mrs. Christi held out the envelope. Gordon made no effort to take it from her, and she simply dropped it on the desk in front of him. "These make five, if I'm not mistaken."

Gordon picked up the envelope and dropped it in the plastic OUT basket at the corner of his desk without even looking at it. He said "No, you're not mistaken" as he did this, looking first down at the surface of his desk and then up at the face of Diane Christi, that pale, softly lined face of hers. Gordon gently stared at her and folded his hands in his lap again as he leaned back in his chair.

She looked back at him, and sighed after a few seconds. It was a sigh that sounded sympathetic, although Gordon was certain that sympathy was insincere. "James, this is�"

"'Commissioner'," Gordon told her, tapping the COMMISSIONER JAMES GORDON name-plate at the front of his desk.

She looked at him strangely for a moment. "You never struck me as the sort of person to insist on his title."

"I'm not," he replied, then indicated his name-plate again. "'Commissioner'. . . . Continue, Mrs. Christi."

Mrs. Christi gave a conceding nod. "Fine. Commissioner, at this point in the proceedings, the divorce proceedings, it's late to decide it's not what you want. This . . . reluctance you're demonstrating is something that really should've been addressed at the court proceedings, or privately between yourself and your attorney, and then between he and I." She looked like she was waiting for Gordon to say something. He offered no response. She tried again. "Not signing the papers at this stage�simply doing nothing at this stage accomplishes only a stalemate between us."

Gordon shrugged with his eyebrows. "Stalemate in chess might just mean a well-played game," he offered, watching her. She didn't look as though she agreed with him on that.

"Do you play chess often, Commissioner?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "Nope. I could never remember which piece moved where. That hindered my game a bit."

Mrs. Christi nodded. "Well, in that case, I can skip the lengthy chess metaphor and just say that chess has absolutely nothing to do with where we're at now."

"No," Gordon said, "I guess not."

She eyed him strangely. "Commissioner," she said, inhaling, "you're making it awfully hard to tell where you're coming from, exactly. Whether you want a divorce from Sarah or not, I'd think you'd at least like to talk to me about something relevant while I'm here."

"There's very little of relevance I want to discuss with you, with all due respect, Mrs. Christi. Except your leaving my office." Gordon smiled at her. "Now, please."

The lawyer sighed at him from across the desk, a look of disappointment in her eyes that was almost maternal. Gordon didn't let it get to him; she was, what�nine years his junior? She stood from her chair, but left the envelope she'd brought with her on the desk. "I wish something more productive could've come from this today," she told him.

Mrs. Christi turned and started out. Gordon cleared his throat, and she turned around and looked at him before she got to the door. He picked up the envelope and offered it to her. "You can take these with you. They'll only find the trash if they stay in here. . . . I'm a very disorganized man."

Gordon dropped the envelope on the edge of the desk.

"My patience is wearing thin, Commissioner," Christi told him, her tone sounding just slightly threatening. "You will have to face these divorce proceedings eventually."

"You're right," Gordon said. "But, everything I have to say about this I'll say to my wife�not her attorney, not a judge."

"She's chosen me as her mouthpiece in this matter, Commissioner. I'd much rather you speak to me."

He shook his head. "So I won't influence her testimony?" he asked Mrs. Christi. "She's not facing prison, Mrs. Christi. She hasn't lawyered-up. She's my wife. And I'll talk about this with her when she calls me."

Diane Christi eyed Gordon suspiciously. "You're so certain she'll call you . . ."

Gordon nodded and grinned, looking off to the side. "Believe me, when she finds out about this little meeting you and I've just had, she'll be in touch very soon." He looked up at her again, then nodded at the door. "Leave, Mrs. Christi."

And she did, finally, without another word. When she closed the door behind her, Gordon realized she hadn't taken the brown envelope with her. He took it from the edge of the desk and looked at it. For a moment, he thought about dropping it in the trash, like he told her he would. But, after a moment, he opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk and dropped it in there. He slid the drawer shut and looked straight ahead, not sure why he did what he'd just done, or what it meant.

Major Crimes Squadroom
2:58 p.m.

There was a detective named Simon Messerschmidt standing at the doorway. Ben Cone was alone in the room. Ben recognized him immediately, and stood from his desk to greet him. "Mess?" Cone asked, just to get his attention.

Messerschmidt caught sight of Cone and his eyes lit up for a moment, apparently not having seen him until just now. "Ben!" Messerschmidt approached him with a smile, hand outstretched. They shook hands and stood there, about five feet inside the door, not quite in front of the table that held the coffee machine and water cooler. Messerschmidt looked down at Ben�by three inches, Mess was the taller of the two�with kindness, and seemed glad to see him. "I'm glad to run into you," he said a moment later.

"How is everyone at Seventeen?" Cone asked him, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back on his left foot.

"I thought you talked to Kinder not too long ago . . ."

Ben nodded. "Yes, over the phone . . . about a week ago, I think. We couldn't get too in-depth, though. He called me at work, and we've been . . . busy, lately, to say the least."

Messerschmidt looked at Ben curiously. "Really? Even compared to Seventeen?"

"Oh, God, ever since I got here. It doesn't stop. Every time we get a case solved, there are six more coming in . . . This is a tough beat."

A smile came over Messerschmidt's face and he looked down for a moment. "So, if I ever get transferred up here, I shouldn't call it a promotion is what you're saying."

Ben nodded, sharing the smile with his friend. "Certainly not a promotion." Ben looked around the room for a moment, his mind blank for a few seconds. His eyes moved around for a bit, finding his desk finally. He pointed to it. "Come-on over. Sit down." He started back to his desk. As he walked, he glanced back at Mess, who was following him, and asked what it was that brought him here today. It was almost an afterthought after their small-talk.

They both sat down at the desk, Ben in the rolling chair behind it, Mess in the stiff, steel-framed chair in front of it that was usually reserved for witnesses. Mess slid forward a bit in the seat and leaned back, trying his best to get comfortable in the rigid chair. He opened his overcoat and, after some minor effort, pulled out a manila folder.

Ben suddenly remembered about the coat Mess was wearing�not that he'd forgotten, really, just that it hadn't occurred to him lately. For whatever reason, whenever two precincts had to work together on a case, or whenever there was any other situation that required a sharing of information within the department, when Mess was on the case, he ended up always having to be the one to carry the information. But, carrying a folder in one hand would only leave him with one free hand, and Mess had this compulsion�maybe more of a preference, but Ben always called it a compulsion�about carrying things. He much preferred to have both hands free at all times. Maybe it was so he could get his gun out faster. Ben never really asked him about it. Since Mess always ended up bearing the file, he eventually had an extra large pocket sewn into the lining of his overcoat. That way, he could carry the file without actually carrying it in his hands. That was ten, eleven, twelve years ago now, and most information transfers between precincts were handled via fax or, over the last few years, over computer. Ben wondered if pulling out that folder to hand to him just now was the first time in years that Mess had had a chance to use that pocket.

Cone took the folder and opened it, glanced at the first page of its contents very briefly, then read the tab along the top: DILLANFELD, BEN. "What befell this poor soul to land his name on a folder from Homicide?" Ben asked, looking up at Mess.

"You don't read the reports up here at H-Q, huh?" Mess remarked, grinning slyly. He cleared his throat and started over a moment later. "He got murdered Friday morning, but I talked it over with El Tee and we agreed that it was in a . . . strange, I guess, enough way to qualify for Major Crimes territory."

Ben looked at the folder, raising his eyebrows at it. He put it down on his desk, gazing at it unfavorably as he said to Mess, "Sounds like a . . . like a lovely read."

The door to the lieutenant's office opened, and out walked Kitch. He took a quick look around the empty squadroom, then found Cone. "No one else is back in yet?" he asked.

Cone shook his head. "No. I just got here myself about a minute before this donut-dunker walked in," he said, indicating Messerschmidt with a nod.

Kitch's eyes lighted on Mess for a moment, then went back to Cone. "Who is this donut-dunker?" the lieutenant asked neutrally.

Detective Messerschmidt stood from the chair and nodded at Kitch. "Simon Messerschmidt, Seventeenth Homicide."

"Oh?" said Kitch, mild interest on his face. He looked at Cone and nodded his head toward Mess. "Your old precinct?"

Cone nodded. "Yes." He held the manila folder up to Kitch. "And he brought us a present." Ben looked at Mess and nodded toward Kitch. "This is Sam Kitch�our El Tee."

Mess and Kitch exchanged polite nods, then Kitch zeroed-in on the folder in Cone's hand. "What's that?"

"A murder Mess brought over from Seventeen," Cone said. "He thought we might be better suited to handle it. It's apparently some on the sensational side."

Kitch thought a moment. "The Dillanfeld case?"

Ben looked at Kitch, impressed. "You know about it?"

"I know of it," Kitch said. "Gordon mentioned it to me when I had lunch with him on . . . Saturday." Cone looked at Kitch silently. "I wasn't supposed to talk about it," Kitch explained. He pointed at the folder. "It is 'sensational', from what the commissioner told me." Kitch looked at Mess. "I assume you and your lieutenant talked this over before you brought Ben the report, right?"

Mess nodded. "Absolutely. I've got his total approval in bringing this here."

Ben opened the folder briefly and looked at the first page again, then closed it and held it up to Kitch again. "I haven't read it at all, if you'd like to look at it first."

Kitch inhaled deeply, then sighed. "You're loaded down in Homicide over there, huh?" he asked Mess, looking at him with a wrinkled brow. Mess nodded. "All right . . ." Kitch walked up to within two steps of Cone's desk and reached out his arm. "Give it here. I'd better look at it." Ben handed over the folder, and Kitch turned back immediately for his office. "Don't you go anywhere, Ben," he said. "Tell everyone else to stay-put when they get back, too. I want to hear some progress on those executions, if there is any." The door to Kitch's office closed after him once he was inside.

"Is he talking about that thing the Globe called the 'Batman murders', or whatever?" Mess asked, looking at Kitch's office door.

Cone nodded. "It's not just that. A lot of ugly stuff is happening all at once, and it's all tied together somehow. This nut in a Batman costume�might actually be Batman, I don't know; people with past, sometimes long past, mob connections turning up dead, both in Gotham and in other parts of the country; that awful thing in New Jersey yesterday might even be tied into it; it's all linked, somehow." Ben leaned forward at his desk and wiped his face with his hands, beginning to be mentally exhausted just from contemplating it. "That's where everyone's at now, out shaking down snitches to try and find out what's going on."

"You have any luck?"

Ben gave Messerschmidt a disbelieving look. "Right. . . . You know I only ever had one guy who was even halfway reliable, and he almost never told me anything helpful. I do my work with . . . with witnesses . . . I got nothing today."

Mess gave a daunted sigh. "Wow," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Have you considered the guy behind all this might be James Elroy?"

Ben looked up at him. "Who's that?"

"Nevermind," Mess told him. "It was a joke. It's not important." He reached out and patted Ben on the shoulder, then turned around and started walking out. "If you or your lieutenant decide you're too busy to take on that Dillanfeld case, just call the house and say so and we'll take it ourselves."

"Will do," Ben said, watching him leave. "Good seeing you today, Mess."

Mess paused at the door and looked at Ben. "Any chance we could have lunch this week sometime? I know it's a stretch, but . . ."

Ben shook his head. "It'll have to be dinner. Lunch no longer exists in its previous form. Maybe you can go out with Gabrielle and I some night."

Mess nodded, and walked out the door. Ben saw him start down the stairs, and heard him say "I'll give you a call" before he disappeared.

About five minutes after Mess left, Ben got up and went to the bathroom. When he came out, Soong, Berkley, and Montoya had all three suddenly appeared. He greeted them with a wave, and was about to tell them to sit down and stay down when Kitch emerged from his office and told them to do just that. "Where's Bullock and Bock?" Kitch asked after a moment.

Montoya shook her head. "I haven't seen them."

Kitch sighed. "Let's give them a few . . . maybe five more minutes. Then I want to hear what everyone's got so far. Not just today, but everything we've got since the Dominguez slayings. All right?"

There was a few seconds of nodding and muffled but affirmative muttering, and Kitch retreated back into his office.

Gotham International Airport
Gate 28
3:12 p.m.

Dick reminded Alfred for the fourth time that he didn't have to wait with them, since it was hard to tell when they would start letting people on. For the fourth time, Alfred gently insisted that he remain to see Dick and Lilhy off. How English of him, Dick guessed, knowing full well that he personally knew very few, if any, other English people.

The three of them sat, side by side by side, in the front-most row of chairs out in front of the gate, at the end of the row nearest the gate. No one else sat with them in the row, but there was a total of twenty or so other waiting passengers in the four rows of seats behind them. They were all talking, constantly, and the whole sound which their individual conversations comprised was loud, and continually drifted forward and hit Dick in the back of the head.

Dick looked over at Alfred, watching him silently. "I'm kind of an idiot, aren't I?" Dick said after awhile.

Alfred looked over at him, and his brow wrinkled with confusion after a moment. "What?"

"I mean . . . I can fly a plane," Dick said. He blinked once, staring at Alfred blankly. "Myself."

"That you can," Alfred said.

Dick was really looking for a bit more than that from Alfred. He stared at the Englishman for a few seconds, doing nothing, then sat up and looked all around him, holding his arms out and indicating the airport that surrounded them on every side. He looked back at Alfred after he'd done this, and waited.

"Ah," Alfred said, and he nodded, "I see. . . . You don't own an airplane, however."

Dick kept his eyes on Alfred, and Alfred looked back at him. "Bruce does," Dick said.

Alfred was staring straight ahead now. "So he does."

"I mean, I . . . I dunno, I make it�I make it hard on myself sometimes, don't I?"

Alfred cocked his head sideways cogitively and looked to think for a moment. "Yes," he said simply. After a moment, he added quietly "Not as much as he does, though."

Neither Dick nor Alfred said anything else until eleven minutes later when the P.A. system announced that TWA Flight 909, Gotham City to Bern, Switzerland, was ready for boarding. Dick and Lilhy, who had sat without saying a word the entire time, stood, Dick telling Lilhy to go ahead and get on the plane, that he'd only be a minute or so. When Lilhy was gone, Alfred took Dick in an embrace and held him there for a few seconds, patting him gently on the back. Dick took a step back from Alfred and smiled and nodded at him. "I'll see you when we get back," Dick told him, and turned slowly toward the gate.

"Be certain to call when you return," Alfred said, calling after him. Dick stopped and looked back. "You'll be needing a ride home."

Dick gave a nod, and a final wave, and started away from Alfred again. Lilhy wasn't on the plane, but just a few feet beyond the curve inside the gate, waiting for him.

117 Dinsmore Street
Hamilton Pines
Gotham City
3:49 p.m.

Henry Cooper wanted a bigger living room. That was something he had to think about while he lay sideways on his couch, watching Maury on Channel 4. What a tired, lifeless hour it had been, too. . . . Too bad Jerry Springer didn't start on Channel 2 until 4:00.

The front door opened and Ty Cooper walked in, the weight of his overloaded bookbag hunching him over as he stepped. Henry watched his son as he went, watched his short, lifeless steps as he started upstairs. The boy glanced at him for a moment as he climbed the stairs. "Tough day, son?"

Ty was up the stairs by the time his father spoke, and didn't stop to answer. "He's got homework, I think," said someone else. Henry Cooper shot up in the chair from his reclining position and looked sharply at the empty doorway that was filled after a moment with the stern figure of Commissioner Gordon. "Forgive the intrusion if you will, Sergeant."

Cooper collapsed the foot-rest beneath the chair and stood, regarding Gordon, who remained stiffly in the doorway, eye-to-eye. "I . . . I don't think we've ever spoken personally before, sir," he said to Gordon after trying for a few seconds to think of something.

"We haven't, to my recollection," Gordon replied. The commissioner was staring at Cooper, not pointedly, not accusingly, not with any particular intent evident, just an even, constant look. "Sergeant Edmunds worked your shift today," he said, again with no particular inflection, as though he were informing Cooper of the fact. "You were here, I gather."

"I was here, yes, sir," Cooper answered, now trying to return Gordon's stare with equal constancy.

Gordon broke the stare for the first time since walking in, but only for a moment, as he glanced behind him at the staircase, then he was right back at Cooper. "How old is your son?"

Cooper balked a moment, and kicked himself for it inside. After an initial stutter, he answered "He's twelve."

"Today."

"Sir?"

The stare continued, although Cooper wondered if it hadn't have somehow become more penetrating than just a moment ago. "Twelve years old today," Gordon repeated.

Cooper thought a moment, then suddenly made the decision to nod. "Yes," he said, moving straight ahead, "he just turned twelve today."

"Which is your reason for giving Edmunds your shift today," Gordon assumed.

"Yes. Yes, sir. I'm taking him to a ballgame tonight. In about fifteen minutes, actually."

Gordon raised an eyebrow, another disruption in his constant stare. "Baseball game?"

Cooper shook his head. "Basketball, sir."

"A basketball game starting before five o'clock?"

"It's a high school game, Commissioner. One of Ty's older friends is playing, I promised we could go see it together . . ."

Gordon broke the stare again, now for a long time, looking at the floor for what must've been ten, fifteen seconds. When he looked back up at Cooper, it was from beneath his brow, keeping his head tilted forward at an angle. He looked at Cooper in this way for another few seconds. "Sit down, Sergeant." It was an order�Cooper could tell�but didn't sound like one. He backed up to his chair and sat down.

The commissioner stepped from the doorway into the living room for the first time. "May I?" he asked, indicating the couch on the other side of the living room with his outstretched hand. Cooper nodded, trying to be gracious, and Gordon sat. The commissioner took a deep breath. "I don't particularly want to be here, Sergeant. I was a bit hard on Sergeant Edmunds about you and he freely switching shifts like you've done, but under normal circumstances I wouldn't be upset about that to any . . . real great degree. Driving to your house a few minutes ago, I really hoped that I would find . . . normal circumstances here."

"I'm sorry, sir," Cooper said, feeling very compelled to interject with something, "I don't follow you so�"

"Sergeant, just wait. . . ." Gordon stopped and shook his head, looking at the floor again. He was having difficulty with what he was saying, that was obvious. "The up-shot of this is that at least I know Sergeant Edmunds is clean; he did such an awful job covering for you, and you, Sergeant, must be new at this because it's obvious you and Edmunds didn't get together on your story for today." Gordon took a breath, and assumed his constant stare again, leaning forward on the couch, hands clasped in front of him. "Forgetting that you could've put in for a personal day for your son's birthday and done it the right way, blowing off your shift today isn't a major offense. It's wrong, but no major offense. But, the fact that you've obviously been lying to me�trying very, very hard to lie to me about this is . . . not encouraging, Sergeant."

Cooper swallowed. "If you want to discuss something with me, sir, feel free to do it directly."

"I know you're aware of the events in Karsted last night."

"Yes, sir," Cooper said, nodding solemnly.

"Harvey Dent was transferred from Arkham Asylum to a hospital in New Jersey, and the Heavy-Duty Criminal Transport vehicle was nowhere to be seen. That didn't strike me until I did see it when they brought him back this morning. You worked the desk at Headquarters on Saturday night�where was it?"

Before Cooper could answer, Gordon kept going; he must've only paused for a breath.

"Why did Norton, the regular driver of the vehicle, work day-shift for the first Saturday in five months? Can you answer those questions, Sergeant Cooper? Can you possibly offer me an explanation as to why one of the most dangerous psychotics in the world was moved from one place to another while the vehicle that was constructed for the sole purpose of moving people like him from one place to another was away and is still at this point unaccounted for?"

Henry Cooper was about to say something, then he stopped. His mind was completely blank, he realized as he looked at the commissioner, who continued to stare steadily at him. The shit was up to his armpits by now, and Cooper decided he just had to stand in it. What else could he do? He kicked himself in the ass for being such a retarded fuck-up, but all he could see to do was keep his mouth shut now. He was going to say to Gordon, "I don't know what you're talking about, sir," in a quietly defiant tone, just to show that he wasn't intimidated by Gordon's coming here. Before he could get the words out of his mouth, though, Gordon's palm shot up, and his stare turned suddenly sharp.

"If it's not the truth, don't bother saying anything," he told Cooper.

Cooper looked Gordon in the eye and said what he wanted to say, that he didn't know what the commissioner was talking about. Gordon's eyes remained steady, but he stood up only a moment or so after that and left the house without saying anything else. Cooper sat in his living room, alone and not moving for a long time.

Arkham Asylum
5:12 p.m.

"Tell me about Dr. Ronald Epkins," Gordon asked the man who sat behind the desk.

The man behind the desk was Dr. Clarence Dilday, one of the psychiatrists on-staff at the Asylum. According to Hamilton, the guard at the front entrance, Dilday had been there for only two weeks, but had been working with Harvey Dent in the New Arkham wing almost exclusively. Looking at him, Gordon didn't read him as the kind of man who would work for Oswald Cobblepot.

"He's a friend," Dilday responded, "someone I've known since I worked in New England."

"How long ago was that?"

"I left Boston twelve years ago, so . . . twelve years."

Gordon nodded, and let a silence pass for a moment or so. He looked at Dilday across the desk the same way he'd quietly regarded Sergeant Cooper. "So, you respected him�Dr. Epkins."

Dilday nodded.

"Is that why you put your name at the bottom of the transfer request for Harvey Dent? Because of your respect for Dr. Epkins?"

Dr. Dilday was quiet for a few seconds, appearing to consider what he was about to say. Gordon just waited. "I wrote the transfer request. And, I do believe a few days with Dr. Epkins would have been beneficial to Two-Face. I still believe that."

Gordon looked blankly across the desk. "You refer to him as 'Two-Face'?"

"He�or rather they�refer to themselves as Two-Face. If we're going to help them at all, especially after all these years of them living in this state of mind, then we must relate to them on their own terms," Dilday explained.

Gordon sighed. "I suppose you know what you're doing."

"Dr. Epkins knows what he's doing. When the furor over this Karsted incident dies down, I'd like to try and arrange another meeting between he and Two-Face."

Gordon's eyes narrowed. "The Karsted . . . incident . . ."

Dr. Dilday widened his eyes and looked down at the desk, his fingers steepled. "Commissioner, please dispense with your righteous outrage at what Two-Face has done. It was unfortunate, and a tragedy, but it's been done and dwelling on the tragedy accomplishes nothing, for Two-Face or for anyone else."

"He murdered seventeen people, and I'm not supposed to be outraged about it?"

Dilday shook his head. The way he did it made Gordon wonder if he'd misjudged this "good doctor". "Outrage is fine. You're right; seventeen people were killed. But, continually speaking about what an awful tragedy it was does nothing, at this point, to help Two-Face. From a psychological perspective, this might be the most telling event of their life since the acid-scarring."

Gordon gritted his back teeth. "From a psychological perspective." He nodded along.

"We've always known they were reliant on the coin to make decisions, but Two-Face's actions in Karsted were easily the most demonstrative of his condition that I, for one, have ever seen. The coin continually showed the same side, and yet they apparently never even questioned it. The notion that something could have been out of the ordinary must've never even occurred�it was the coin, their only recognized symbol of fairness or justice, and therefore incapable of error."

"You sound as though . . . you have sympathy for him," Gordon observed, or maybe accused.

Dilday shook his head. "An understanding, perhaps. Sympathy from me won't help Two-Face at all. It won't help him heal at all."

Gordon felt a thin, bitter grin come over his face. "'Him,'" he said, staring at the doctor, the grin still there. "You used 'him'."

"Did I?" Dilday asked, apparently unaware. "Well, 'they,' then. My mistake."

Sensing that now was the time to leave, Gordon stood. He said nothing more to the doctor, just turned around, opened the door, and walked straight out of the office.

5:23 p.m.

The New Arkham section held an eerie feeling for Gordon now. Nothing of any real significance had happened here, but, in a way, the tragedy of Karsted could be traced back to this place. Had Harvey Dent only remained here . . . Gordon stared back the one hallway of this wing of the Asylum, and forced himself not to think about that anymore�forced himself not to consider what would've been had only a single event of the last two days been altered.

The two-way mirror of Harvey Dent's cell had been turned on so that Gordon, outside, could watch Dent, but Dent, inside, looked at the glass he saw only his own reflection. Gordon supposed this was to be perceived as punishment for the inmate. He wondered how long the mirror would remain like this once he left.

Beside the glass was the cell's control panel. It was simple enough to operate. Gordon told the guard who had accompanied him down the hall to deactivate the mirror, then yielded to the guard, who quickly slid an electronic key-card into a slot and punched in a three-digit code in a number pad. The guard turned back toward the end of the hallway as a brief electric buzz came from the control panel, and left Gordon alone.

Dent could see Gordon standing outside his cell. At least, if he looked, he could. "Harvey," Gordon said, loud in order to activate the sound-sensitive microphone embedded in the control panel. Inside the cell, Dent didn't move. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, which was still neatly made, and hadn't moved, that Gordon had seen, since Gordon stepped in front of the glass. "Harvey," Gordon repeated, slightly louder, although he suspected that being heard wasn't the problem.

A youthful, staticky voice confirmed that a moment later. "He won't talk to you, all right?" said Peter Devorak, sitting in the cell immediately to the right of Dent's. "He hasn't said a word since they brought him back."

Gordon looked at the teenager, took a few steps closer to his cell. "Have you tried to speak to him?"

Devorak made a cynical noise and sneered, looking away from Gordon and shaking his head. "No," he said harshly. "The head doctors can't do him any good then neither can I."

"No," Gordon said, shrugging with his eyes and turning away from Devorak's cell.

As he started to walk away, he heard Devorak say, "We're not close like we were. Not like we were before."

Commissioner Gordon stopped and looked back at Peter Devorak in his cell. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Gordon told Devorak with bitter sarcasm, then walked away.

Avian Paradise Casino
7:44 p.m.

Cobblepot wasn't in the penthouse, but Groverton had assured Quentin that he was one of two places in the rest of the building. The first of those places was the first floor, onto which Quentin had just stepped from the elevator. If he was here, he'd be up front near the door, personally greeting the incoming gambling masses as they entered to spend the night blowing their individual wads on blackjack and the roulette wheels; he did that a lot�greeted the customers.

Quentin let his hands slip into the pockets of his black tuxedo pants, and approached the guard at the door, who carefully eyed every man and woman who walked through the door. "Cobblepot around?" Quentin asked, walking up behind and leaning over the guard's left shoulder. The guard didn't turn his head away from the door, just gave a negative shake of it as he continued to watch the incoming patrons. Quentin looked at the guard from behind for a moment. "You seen him?" he asked. Another shake of the head, just as before. Quentin nodded to himself, turned, and walked away.

He fished a key out of his pocket when he got to the private elevator and inserted it in the lock next to the doors. Inside, he took the same key and inserted it in another lock, turned it, and pressed the button on the panel for the basement�that was the only other place Oswald would be.

The basement of the casino held the vault. It's where all the money went. It's where Cobblepot would go, too, very often. That's where Quentin found him, standing next to the two blocky mechanical behemoths that had been dubbed the Quarter Machines. The thousands upon thousands of quarters harvested from the slots were brought down here and poured by the bucket into one of these machines, where they were stacked and wrapped. The machines made a noise of their own, but there was also the easily audible sound of coins clicking together constantly, a sound which Cobblepot had professed several times to love.

When Quentin stepped up next to him, he professed that love again. "It's not because of their monetary value to me, either," he assured Quentin, "you mustn't think that. It's the sound. I'd love that sound just as much if each of those little metal disks were absolutely worthless to me. That chorus of clicks . . ."

Quentin listened to the machines for a bit, but he just couldn't get into it. Not that he was trying, particularly; taking as much pleasure from the sound of coins clicking together as Cobblepot apparently did wasn't something Quentin was all that interested in being able to do. "So, did you want to talk to me, or . . . ?"

Cobblepot turned away from the quarter machines and looked at Quentin. "Yes. Yes, I did." Oswald brushed past Quentin and started for the door. "Let's go upstairs to my office," he said behind him.

"I was just up there," Quentin complained. He followed anyway, though.

The elevator ride back up was silent. When they exited into Oswald's penthouse/office, they found Groverton seated at the desk, typing something on the computer. Oswald told him immediately to go somewhere else. When Groverton hesitated, seeming not quite sure where to go�and, also, he did seem to be in the middle of something�Oswald suggested he go into the bathroom and read a book; there was a copy of John Grisham's latest volume of lawyer drivel, Oswald said. Quentin remembered how much Groverton despised Grisham's work, and smiled a little.

"I think I've just remembered something else I can do instead," Groverton said, and turned around and started for the elevator.

Oswald watched as the elevator doors slid shut on Groverton, saying nothing, then turned to Quentin once they were alone in the penthouse. As he spoke, Cobblepot made his way slowly around to the back of his desk and sat down, lacing his fingers atop his stomach. "What happened in Karsted? Exactly."

Quentin inhaled, and he put a stumped look on his face for a few seconds while he thought. He released his breath and started to shake his head, since he didn't know what else to do. "You told me to watch him, I watched him."

"You watched him commit a dozen acts of murder," Oswald said. "I'd just be interested in knowing what you might've been thinking whilst observing this."

"I just� . . . Murder's what you sent him there to do, though . . ."

Cobblepot shook his head with stern insistence. "I sent him there in hopes of eliminating a problem of mine. Call it a euphemism for murder if you will, but I certainly didn't intend for him to terrorize�and nearly annihilate�an entire town." Quentin could see the Penguin's temper beginning to flare as he spoke�no�he wasn't getting angry, really . . . more like he was . . . maybe embarrassed? Quentin wondered about it for a short time before he realized that Oswald was waiting for him to say something.

"It's�Look, it's not my fault! Man, you could�fuck, I dunno�whether you look at it that way or not, you could say it ain't even his fault! I mean, that coin, he'd probably cut his own dick off if it told him to. You know?"

"Did you see him flipping the coin while in Karsted?"

"Yeah, sure. Sure I did. He flipped it a couple times. Christ, like every time before he shot somebody, practically."

"'Practically'?"

Quentin sighed. "Okay�all the time, I guess. Look, I didn't think you sent me along to�to fuckin' count how many times he flipped the coin."

"Why do you believe I sent you along with him?"

"Christ, I dunno. Keep him out of trouble? I�"

"Keep him out of trouble?"

"I mean�I didn't mean like that. I mean, like, make sure he didn't get arrested or something. Like that." Quentin looked at Cobblepot, who was saying nothing for now, just watching and listening. "Or�I mean, he did get arrested�make sure he didn't get killed, or something. Like that."

Oswald nodded, repeating thoughtfully to himself, "Make sure he didn't get killed . . ."

"There was something fucked up with his coin anyway, right? I�I can't see how the fuck you're blaming me for this. I mean, Christ . . ."

"You can't." Oswald was flat, calm.

"I mean, I follow him�like I'm told�I watch him�like I'm told�I do every fuckin' think I'm told to do with this shit. Fuckin' Batman, motherfucker nearly breaks my shoulder�"

"How is your shoulder?"

"Sore," he complained bitterly. "It's sore. I guess it's still whole, though."

"You didn't think it was unusual that Two-Face's coin seemed to be continuously giving him instructions to follow his darker side, when there's always a fifty-fifty chance it could be telling him the opposite? That didn't strike you as odd, even after it had happened five, ten, fifteen times consecutively?"

"Goddamn coin was scratched on both sides! How's he supposed to do the 'good' thing, or whatever, when the coin ain't got no 'good' side?"

"You didn't know that about the coin when you were in Karsted," Oswald reminded him. "The fact that it seemed to be forever landing on the scarred face didn't strike you as unusual? At all?"

"I didn't know what the fuck was going on. You told me to keep out of his way."

"Did I?"

"Fuckin' right you told me to keep out of his way. And I probably would'a, anyway. I mean, I figure just let him do shit his way. And the coin thing�shit, how was I supposed to know you didn't give him that bitched-up coin? All I know, it's part of your, like, plan, or whatever."

"That's right, my plan entailed the wholesale slaughter of a dozen people who had nothing to do with Jacob Arken or anything else that's in my interest. Very smart thinking."

"Hey"�Quentin stuck the middle finger of his right hand up in front of Cobblepot's face�"right here. Fuck you, you weren't there. Like I'm supposed to know how you think, anyway. Like hell. Two-Face is pretty quiet lately�all I know, you're setting him up for this shit in Karsted to put some kind of badass killer reputation on him or something. How the fuck am I supposed to know?"

Oswald spoke into a telephone that consisted of his thumb and extended pinky finger. "'Hello, sir, I'm in Karsted. Tell me, is Two-Face supposed to be visiting the bloody judgment of God on everyone he sees?'" Oswald put his hand down and looked at Quentin. "I suppose that doesn't sound very familiar, though, does it?"

"That guy you sent him to kill�Jacob Arken�he's dead. Two-Face did what you sent him there to do, and so did I. And if everything didn't go perfectly, well so the fuck what? Yeah, a lot of people with nothing to do with nothing got killed, so I guess we call that a tragedy. Well, you know what? Live with it. Just try and tell me you haven't killed your fair share, especially lately."

Oswald's eyes narrowed.

"We both have," Quentin continued. "I know I have. With my bare hands. People who didn't do a goddamn thing to me except have the stupid balls to stand across a ring from me. And I live with it because I can. I told you I would've gone to Karsted and found that son of a bitch and killed him�and only him. But you told me all I had to do was tag along and stay out of the way, so that's what I did. If you didn't want almost twenty people to get killed, maybe you shouldn't've sent someone as fuckin' nuts as Two-Face to get the job done."

Oswald looked to think for a few seconds. He looked like his temper was really starting to flare now, for real this time. Quentin was pretty worked up by now, too, and could've cared less about it. Oswald stood up behind his desk. "All of that is irrelevant. The next time you're accompanying someone who gets anywhere approaching that out-of-control, you step in, and you stop it, for the integrity of the assignment. Seventeen people died in Karsted; sixteen of those, with the possible exceptions of those at the hospital, are failures. My failures. I can live with killing. You're right; I have to. I can't live with failure. And if you let it happen like this again, neither can you."

Quentin just nodded a few times, bitterly. "Fine. I got it." He turned around and started toward the elevator.

"I'll be in touch," Oswald said.

The elevator doors slid open. "I'll sit by the phone," Quentin said as he was stepping inside.

Office of Commissioner Gordon
Gotham City Police Headquarters
10:37 p.m.

Gordon had been sitting at his desk doing absolutely nothing for almost a solid hour when he realized someone else was in the office, and, in fact, was standing in the corner a few feet from him. Before that, the thought of going home had just occurred to him. He could do nothing there as well as he could here, so why not? He looked over at Batman.

"Good evening."

"Is it?" Gordon asked, turning away and looking down at the blotter on his desk. There wasn't a spot of ink on it; Gordon suddenly wondered why he even had a blotter. It was a calendar, too, and he never used it. Why did he even have it?

"Not particularly," came the response.

Neither one of them said anything for a little while, maybe a minute. "What brings you here?" Gordon finally asked.

"You went to Arkham today. Twice."

Gordon nodded. "I had some people I needed to speak to."

"You spoke to Dent?"

"No," Gordon said, shaking his head. "He's not talking to anyone. Apparently, he's been near-catatonic since he discovered what was done to his coin."

"Were you given a prognosis for him?"

Gordon shook his head again. "The doctor there they've got in charge of him didn't strike me as a very results-oriented type of man. He's more interested in letting Dent know that he�excuse me�they are understood."

No response to that one. There was silence for a bit, then Batman said "Anything else?"

Gordon raised his eyebrows dryly for an instant. "In a hurry, are you?" Batman said nothing. "No, there's nothing else. At least not that I can think of right now." Gordon thought that was all he had to say, but he spoke again a moment later. "I'm sitting on top of a crooked police department," he said.

Batman was still here; Gordon had thought perhaps he would leave once he thought the conversation was over, but he remained where he had been standing in the corner of the office. "What have you found out?" he asked.

Gordon's hand went to his forehead as he spoke, and he continued to look down at the surface of his desk. For some reason, he decided to focus on the eleventh day of the month on his blotter calendar. "Nothing provable, but that seems like the rule." He sighed. "I just�I had a very unsettling conversation with one of the desk sergeants who works in this building. It was so obvious, he might as well have been wearing a sign."

"A sign," Batman repeated, grim.

"A large one," added Gordon, "reading 'I Am Being Manipulated', in block letters, or something like that. 'Tool', maybe would be appropriate, too."

"Which sergeant was it?"

Gordon shot a sharp stare into the corner. "Why?"

Batman was silent for a few seconds. Gordon couldn't see Batman's eyes, but he wondered if they had narrowed, or done something else in that time. "I'd like to know," Batman said. "If you don't want me to see him, then I won't."

Gordon sighed again. "Henry Cooper is his name. He's a desk sergeant here."

"Anything else?"

"About Cooper? No."

"In general."

Another sigh, and a shrug of the eyebrows to go along with the mental one. "I'm getting divorced."

"You've been getting divorced for some time," Batman observed. He was gone after that. Gordon didn't notice it right away, but he hardly ever did. It wasn't too long after that that Gordon decided it was past time to go home. The small fluorescent lamp at the front edge of his desk was still on; Gordon yanked the small chain and turned it off. Before he stood, he opened the bottom right-hand drawer and removed the enveloped Diane Christi had brought him earlier in the day.

The Apartment of Sarah Essen-Gordon
11:06 p.m.

The house Sarah had lived in with Jim was long gone. A few weeks' gone, anyway. Jim had moved out before the separation was even official, and Sarah could only stand to pay for the house by herself for so long. So, it was gone, sold. Her new apartment in Robinson Park was fairly spacious, though, so there was plenty of room. It wasn't that big of an adjustment, the place.

She'd been out with an old friend, someone from all the way back in Chicago. Belinda was her name�"Belly" most of the time, though. That came from when she was pregnant with her first son. He was twelve now. She worked right up until the week he was actually born. "Belly". They'd gone out to eat at someplace called . . . Sarah couldn't, for the life of her, remember what it was called. They'd eaten someplace, though, and had ended up talking for hours, catching up on old times. Belly'd called it quits as a cop about five years ago, for her kids. She'd kept busy, though, Sarah was assured. As a mother, mostly; no bungee jumping.

The answering machine light was blinking; two messages. The first was from Diane. "Sarah�Diane. I had what could only be described as an interesting meeting with Jim today. Call me whenever you get in, I'll give you the details." Sarah sighed. The machine beeped. The next message played:

"It's me, Sarah. It's . . . eleven o'clock exactly, and I've just gotten home from one of the most awful days I can remember having. Maybe that's an overstatement, but . . . I guess today won't be complete until I sign these damn divorce papers. So, if that's what you want . . . Sarah�just give me a call sometime. At the office, wherever, it doesn't matter. . . . All right."

The machine beeped. The tape started to rewind. Sarah hit the reset button on the machine, then went into the bathroom to undress. She was in bed in a few minutes. She had some trouble getting to sleep. But, she often had trouble getting to sleep. It was probably nothing.