The Tapper
For nearly one hundred and fifty years Gotham City benefited from the beat cop program, a system that placed the responsibility of safeguarding the city streets solely on the officer's shoulders, and one that none of them took lightly. Dedicated law enforcement officials would travel through their assigned neighbourhoods, each one identifying the nooks and crannies that could be used as hideouts for gangs, crooks and murderers as well as learning to navigate the streets, shops, people and the very pulse of their beat. If the community soared they would feel the pride of a job well done, and if it fell, their hearts fell with it.
That was during the day, but things changed when the sun set. Men's hearts would turn, and good souls sought sanctuary as dark hearts grew blacker still. Since its inception the police force enlisted evening patrols, a necessity since Satan's hands seemed busiest in Gotham during those torturous hours. For those hearty men first chosen to patrol the streets, there was only one night of work before they joined their ancestors in eternal slumber. A single night and a stigma was created that would last the full tenure of the Dead Man's Shift.
Immediately Gotham's council issued whistles to their constables, and henceforth man, woman and child alike huddled together in darkness while blaring whistles led to much more carnal screams as attempted thwarts of crime became slaughters. The criminals knew they outnumbered the force, and the force knew it was suicide to continue…until one night.
Tired of the death before him a young constable had given in to his basest emotions. He found a strong branch and forged from it a roughly hewed weapon, an equalizer. That selfsame night he met up with the gang, five roughs who stalked the night as silent lechers, each with grins that seemed forged from the very depths of Hell. The young officer stood his ground and beat the stick firmly across a nearby fence. The fence shattered, and was followed by each man's arms, legs and head as the boy became more beast than man. Only then did he use the whistle, receiving his fellow officers' thanks. From that moment forward each constable was given his own baton.
Through time the baton use dwindled and with the advance of firearms it was deemed obsolete. Gotham changed then, and the nights became long and painful once more for each member of the Dead Man's Shift. Their own guns were an aid but afforded little protection. There was too much darkness, too many corners and shadows and alleys where an officer wasn't afforded the chance to reach his gun, let alone use it. So the shift became a right of passage for each new member of the force. Survive the night for one year and you earn the reward of daylight, and respect. Needless to say, there were few transfers to Gotham City.
How could one survive the night when each step possibly meant disaster? How do you save your sanity when faced with a year of death? Men chose to stand idle and hide in taverns, homes and hidey holes until the shift ended; all sound means that caused a public uproar, so supervisor checks were made mandatory. They were too nervous to whistle, too scared to hum, so what was left?
Soon a single sound was heard throughout Gotham's streets at night, that of honed wood rapping gently and frequently upon the street. Fences, walls, and trash cans were being tapped upon as a nervous police officer passed by. A comforting sound to honest citizens snug in bed, and a warning to criminals to either clear away or cease and desist. Nightly carnage diminished somewhat and all agreed it was a comforting system, but transfers to Gotham were still few and far between.
Enter one James W. Gordon, young and eager, assigned to his Dead Man's Shift. His first three months were kept in the company of William Harris, a veteran of the night who knew how to keep his heart pumping. He showed young James the ways of the neighbourhood and what to do. James learned to admire Harris for his knowledge and eagerness to share it. Although a slightly jittery fellow he was a good man whose wife made a mean apple pie.
During Gordan's first month alone Harris met an untimely end. He was shot and had his head beaten in with his very own baton. The mayor, a puppet of corrupting forces, saw this as an opportunity to push for the mandatory use of squad cars and police pairings. The grieving public quickly gave in to such staunch legislation and soon the beat cop was no more. What the public didn't see were all the early retirements and pink slips dished out soon after to Gotham's experienced police, whose salaries were then given to those selfsame corrupting influences. Young James managed to keep his job, of course. A novice, his salary was low enough that the city could afford it. So Gotham's police entered a period of decline as rookies were given reign and the vast majority chose corruption as the norm, except for young James.
Gordon had learned well from Harris, and he saw to it that the favour was repaid. Although Harris' murder remained unsolved Gordon vowed that his beat wouldn't suffer like the rest of Gotham and that Harris' widow, Estelle, would live her life in peace. He continues to keep his vow to this very day as he stares down at a very still form lying face first in a pool of blood within a darkened alley he knows all too well. Now Police Commissioner, he normally wouldn't bother attending something so routine, Lord knows Gotham and murder seem to go hand in hand, but this is his neighbourhood and he won't let anything so heinous go unpunished.
Gordon's trench coat ruffles slightly in the breeze as he lights his pipe. Looking through his glasses he spies Detective Bullock approaching with a sneer across his face.
"Commish! What a surprise!" Bullock says with all the sincerity of a politician.
"Harvey," Gordon nods in acknowledgement.
"Can't see why this would bring you out," Bullock continues, "No. I can. This is 'your' neighbourhood, ain't it? Guess it finally joined up with the rest of Gotham."
"It always was like the rest of Gotham, Harvey," Gordan answers back coolly, "What do you have?"
"Nothing much. Neighbours heard some tapping and two men talking in the alley. Seems normal enough, probably a drug deal or something. They disagree on the financing package and one goes down. The few folks we talked to heard the shot. We haven't really started canvassing yet."
"Do we have an ID on the body?" Gordon asks.
"Sure, the wallet was left behind," Bullock leafs through his notebook, "Gregory Sands aka Twitty. Hunh. Guess it was information the guy wanted. Twitty was a damned good informer…"
Gordon looks over to a certain window facing the alley. He knows who lives there and something Bullock mentioned tells him he should visit. "Has anyone been to this building yet?" Gordon asks as he points to the ancient structure behind him.
"Not yet."
"I'm going in to talk to someone," Gordon sighs as he takes another puff of his pipe. He empties it and gingerly puts it back in his pocket, "I'm going to handle this case personally, Harvey. You're free to help if you want."
Bullock twirls his index finger in the air, "Whoopee."
…
A knocking sound sends her heart racing. At this hour there aren't supposed to be callers. She grabs her cane and gingerly hobbles her 85 year old frame to the bolted and barred solid oak door. The silver haired ma'am stares through the peephole and smiles at the sight of the white haired and moustached man on the other side. She carefully undoes the locks, her hands shaking, and opens the door with a warm smile.
"What a pleasant surprise," she beams, "How's Gotham's second best policeman doing?"
Gordon smiles back. Ever since Will introduced them she's always greeted him the same way. "Hello Estelle. Mind if I come in?"
"Of course not, silly! Come on in. How about a nice piece of pie?"
They sit together in her small kitchen. He takes a bite of that wonderful confection and it's like he was a young man again. Estelle was radiant as he would sit there, regaling them both with tales of Will's heroisms and pratfalls as he took it all in stride. She loved him and Jim could tell. 'A perfect union,' Gordon thinks. He then notices the empty seat beside her and his fantasy comes crashing down to the harsh reality of his visit.
"Estelle, how've you been," the Commissioner asks as delicately as possible.
"Okay Jimmy," she smiles, "The neighbourhood's been okay, except for tonight. I heard the commotion, but it's nothing new. The shot, though, was. How is the poor dear?"
"Dead."
Her face freezes into a shocked stare, "Oh my."
"Did you hear the tapping?"
She nods in answer, "Yes, Jimmy, I did, but I ignored it. William's ghost is always with me, Jimmy. Whenever I hear a clicking, or thumping, or tapping, it just brought his ghost back to my mind. I heard the tapping, Jimmy, but I always do." Her face then lights up, "You don't suppose William has come back, do you?"
The Commissioner gives his head a slow shake and asks Estelle another question, "Do you have a gun in the house, Estelle?"
"Of course Jimmy," she smiles as she gets up. Hobbling out of the room the Commissioner notices the picture of William Harris on the wall staring back at him. He feels a chill in the air as he whispers, "I'm sorry but it's the job."
The enfeebled Estelle returns with a standard police issue in her badly shaking hand. Gordon grabs hold of the gun as Estelle clears the dishes. Gordon could feel the history in the gun as he held it in his hand, and could practically see William's hand holding it.
"That's William's gun, of course," Estelle says as she washes a plate. James opens the chamber and finds it empty.
"You can take it with you if you want," Estelle continues. James shuts the chamber and sniffs the barrel. 'It hasn't been fired recently,' he concludes silently.
"I know what police work is," Estelle continues, "I was married to a cop, after all. I know you've got to check everyone here with a gun, so don't worry about it, Jimmy." She turns to him with another warm smile, "Just promise you'll visit more often."
"Thanks," Gordon answers as he slips the gun in his pocket and gets out of his seat, "For everything."
…
He knows every corner of this neighbourhood, and every soul that inhabits it. That's what makes this crime all the more unbearable. He knows what murder does to a community, especially an unsolved one. He's seen it before, when he was still a young and naïve street patroller in a once plush area that is now affectionately referred to as Crime Alley.
Gordon reaches for his pipe. He fills it and strikes a match, its tiny light finding a grimly black visage directly adjacent to him. Gordon doesn't even skip a beat as he lights the pipe and takes a deep breath, "Batman."
All goes black again and only a pair of tiny white eyes are visible, "Jim."
"It's a pretty unspectacular homicide," Gordon begins after removing the pipe from his mouth, "I'm surprised you bothered to show up."
"It's the neighbourhood, Jim," a gruff voice whispers across the darkness.
"And it's my case," Gordon whispers back with an iron determination.
"I know."
Gordon sighs. He's an accomplished detective and could probably solve this murder on his own. Only there's something in his gut, a ball, a feeling that this is the type of case where his experience might not be enough. He's learned not to ignore that feeling.
"Do me a favour?" Gordon asks. He just assumes the Batman nods in response as it's too dark to tell. "Stay on the case. I know it's probably routine, but there's something…something nagging about it. Maybe two heads are better than one?"
The two eyes vanish and the Commissioner heads to his car. There's one man he knows who can provide some answers.
…
Another moonlit night in Gotham yields a dimly lit pallor to its squalid streets and dilapidated homes. Through one window in particular the light rests across the floor revealing an apartment consisting of one cot, one chair, one desk, one filing cabinet and one toilet. The entire floor is littered in papers with each white sheet adding to the eerie glow. A gloved hand smashes through the glass pane with each tiny shard falling effortlessly onto the ground and landing silently upon the papers underneath. The hand then forces the window up.
The Batman's silhouette enters the apartment and moves through it like a wraith.
'Ransacked,' he muses as he strains his sight through the night-vision goggles. Batman doesn't bother checking the documents strewn about the floor and first scans the four walls of the room. His eyes come upon a tiny wire running from the light switch down to the floor. Batman swats the papers aside and continues to follow the wire to a tiny digital device underneath the desk.
'An incendiary bomb,' Batman thinks as he reaches into the utility belt and removes a pair of wire cutters. He snips the wire and smiles.
Rising up off the ground the Batman begins his search in earnest. 'Whomever did this didn't find what they wanted. They checked the cabinet,' he surmises as he looks at the forced drawers, 'the desk,' it's splintered and its drawers tossed casually upon the floor, 'the cot,' whose mattress is torn in two and wire frame flipped over. 'That leaves…'
Batman walks over to the toilet and finds its tank lid missing. 'They checked here too,' he construes as he looks inside the tank. Everything is as it should be, except for the ballast. He notes how the rod is slightly bent, as if supporting a weight. Curious the Batman rips off the plastic ballast ball and looks it over. He twists the two ends in opposite directions and it comes apart in two halves. Inside one is a plastic bag with a single sheet of paper. Batman smiles, 'Twitty was anything but a twit.'
He unfurls the parchment and scans it. 'Surgery?'
…
The Commissioner pulls up his car to an unassuming two storey home. He looks up at the full moon and shivers. 'Why is it,' he wonders, 'that I feel like I'm on a crash course to my grave, Will?' He takes a deep breath and with a renewed conviction scampers up the stairs and knocks heavily on the door. It takes several long moments before the porch light comes on and a round little man opens the door in his bath robe.
"Jimmy? Aw nuts," the rotund fellow curls his lip at the sight of Gordon and waves him in.
The two men sit across each other in a sparsely furnished room filled with framed pictures and news clippings detailing years from the old neighbourhood.
"I miss the old days," the man begins rudely, "So sue me. What do you want?"
Gordon goes directly to the point, "Someone died outside Estelle's place, Ricky, and I think you know something about it."
Ricky only gives a hollow laugh in response. Even in the dimly lit room Gordon could see the fine scar running through the centre of Ricky's face. "You shouldn't be here Jimmy; you should be booking that crazy broad. I seen her pointing that gun outside trying to spook the punks. Dame's nuts, I tell you!"
"You mean this gun?" Gordon responds as he pulls out the police issue and points it straight at Ricky's heart. Ricky gasps and spasms as Gordon pulls the trigger. It clicks harmlessly and the startled fat man wipes beads of sweat from his brow.
"You're as crazy as she is!" he gasps, "Damn! My heart. You maniac! I'm not a young man! That stunt could've killed me!"
"So what do you have?" Gordan asks casually.
"Have? Why should I tell you a damned thing? I paid my dues, did my time and you come in here and threaten my life! You may be a powerful man now, Jimmy, and I may have let you in 'cause of that, but I know my God-damned rights, so get the hell out!"
"Just you, me, and four walls Slitface," Gordon whispers as he puts his hand into another pocket and draws out another gun, "I know you're still in contact with the boys. You may not run the business, but surveillance says you still advise it. Want to go double or nothing?"
Ricky scratches his scar out of nervousness and smiles back at Gordon, "The body was Twitty's, wasn't it?" Gordon nods.
"You know, Jimmy, I had no problems with Will. He did alright by me and I did the same for him."
Gordon raises one eyebrow at this and Ricky's smile becomes broader, "You don't know? Will had a serious gambling problem, and I helped him out. See, he'd keep his nose out of our business and I'd let him gamble for free. We were the best of pals, until Sertus put the squeeze on and Getz was forced out. Suddenly I had to collect on Will or join my buddies on the bottom of the river. It was lose-lose and I said so. They gave me this reminder of who's in charge," Ricky points at his scar, "and off I went. Will was hurt, but he said he'd come up with the cash in a week. Instead he was pushing up daisies. So what happens? I'm given another chance to collect and three guys to strong-arm Estelle of all people. God damned morons! Still, you stopped us, didn't you Jimmy? You heard her scream and stopped us with that damned stick."
"I gave you fair warning," Gordon replies.
"Fair warning? You smashed the door in! What kind of tap is that? I tell you, kids have no respect for tradition. So, you know what happened. Estelle was the beloved grieving widow of the hero cop and we went up the river for ten years. By the time I got out I was out of the loop and stuck in this hole. It's taken me years to get back in, Jimmy, to get in touch with the old boys again. You ain't taking that from me again."
"What's any of that got to do with Twitty's murder?" Gordon asks, annoyed.
"Everything," Ricky answers with a grin. "Word is Twitty had some dope on Will. Offered to sell it, and since Will owed money it was natural someone would take him up on the offer. I guess they didn't feel like paying, though. Kind of funny it happened in the old neighbourhood, ain't it?"
"Who called the hit?" Gordon asks through gritted teeth.
"I may be back in the loop, but I'm not a part of it. I have no idea who called it."
Gordon sneers as he gets up and crosses the room, "You're still pretty sly, Ricky, but I've learned a few tricks myself." Gordon puts the guns away and removes a small tape recorder from his pocket. He rewinds and plays a bit, "Now how happy do you think Sertus will be to hear you incriminate him on Estelle's threatening and Will's death?"
"You! Damn it, you!"
"I suggest you work a little and get me something useful. Oh, and by the way, I did give you fair warning this time. I knocked." With that Gordon leaves his host.
Ricky gasps for breath and curses, "Crazy broad."
…
A pale glow continues to haunt the night as it forms rounded shadows around concrete blocks. Each stone is etched in remembrances, honours and facts detailing lives that were cut in their prime all too often. A tragic turn of events and your prone carcass is placed into Gotham's oldest cemetery to rot as your spirit travels. Trees across the plot are twisted and bent, as if detailing the paths these poor souls had taken, each one no more deserved to be here than a newborn babe. Yet here they rest as a new addition grasps onto a single stone, its billowing black cape fluttering on a cold breeze, the kind that chills the very bone.
The Batman sets down a shovel and looks around, 'Not a body in sight, but plenty of ghosts.'
'My parents,' he thinks, 'are only 50 feet away. I can make out their tombstone, even from here. Alleys, graveyards, guns, death and destruction. It doesn't matter where I go, what I do, something always brings me back to that one night, and to why I started this damned fool's crusade!'
He lifts the shovel and thumps it into the earth, "Final rest should be just that. Undisturbed and peaceful, it's what I hope my parents enjoy. I would do this with a priest, and proper documentation, except I doubt Mrs. Harris would allow it. Forgive me…" and he continues his grim task.
…
Commissioner Gordon continues his night drive across the city. Bullock radioed earlier and let him know what was found at Twitty's apartment.
"Apparently Batman got there first and left a present, an incendiary bomb, deactivated of course," Bullock's voice crackles over the radio. "Seems some sadistic SOB had it rigged to blow when someone hit the lights, which was probably going to be a cop."
'It couldn't be the same killer that got Will, could it?' Gordon questions himself. 'No. He'd be ancient by now, or dead, and I don't believe in ghosts.'
Something else is bothering Gordon. 'The tapping Bullock mentioned. Why would anyone tap before killing someone? I thought it might be Estelle trying to keep Will's decent memory intact, but she can barely hold herself up, let alone a gun. No, it had to be a hit. Unless…' Gordon presses down on the accelerator.
…
'Paydirt,' Batman silently mumbles as his shovel strikes wood. He wipes away the dirt and finds the edges of the coffin. Removing a specialized tool from his utility belt he begins detaching nails from around the wooden tomb one-by-one. A final tug and the lid is loose. Batman places a gas mask over his face and pulls up at the coffin's cover and is greeted by a ball of putrid air. Protected, he fans the vomit inducing air away and reveals a badly decayed body underneath. The flesh is nearly gone and what remains is blackened and foul. The Batman pauses, 'Mother. Father. Never, I pray I never have to see you like this. I…'
Batman regains his composure and stares down at the body. A battered skull tells the Batman that this was the Dead Man's Shift final casualty. He removes a ruler and begins measuring the body, determining the height.
'Almost exact,' he concludes.
Batman then looks at the skull. Its teeth, the front ones are either impacted or missing, but the molars are still present. They are few and far between. Then there's the hair…
Content with what he found the Batman places the corpse gently back into its bed of worms and dirt and reseals the wooden sarcophagus. With a brief signing of the cross on his person he returns the dirt. Once the pit is filled he takes the patches of grass he saved and carefully layers them on top.
'That's half the puzzle,' he finishes, 'the second half will require questioning of some living ghouls…'
…
Lights flash across a darkened room from a nearby television, the silence of the muted box occasionally broken by deep moans and yawns of the apartment's sole occupant. She has finally calmed from tonight's events only to hear the tapping once more. She sighs and cautiously moves to her feet. With each slow step the tapping seems to grow louder as she makes her way to the bolted and barred door. Peering through the peephole she sees a figure in policeman's blue standing beyond. She unfastens the bolts and opens the door. "Hello young man," she smiles warmly, "I've been expecting someone from the police. Canvassing the neighbours?"
The officer smiles in return and shoves her back into the apartment…
…
"He's crazy, Batman!" a strong voice booms. Scattered across the small room are two unconscious bodies, their guns nearby. Sitting behind the desk is a fat, bald man, whose face is creased with marks of age and distinction. He has his hands up above his head at the request of the black garbed, pointed eared creature standing on the other side of his desk.
"Who?" Batman asks in his usual gravel like whisper. A chill goes down Sertus' spine.
"I…can't tell you. If I do my whole operation goes south and me with it! I've survived 20 changes at the top because my operation is so smooth, but if this gets out I'm finished!"
Batman reaches across the desk and grabs Sertus by the throat. He grins as he lifts all 350 pounds of the little don into the air with one arm. "You're finished tonight if you don't talk."
Batman drops Sertus unceremoniously into his seat. The don clutches his throat as he desperately searches for air. "The old boy, Ricky."
"Slitface?"
"The same. He needed a job done and I owed him. He lost 10 years of his life without so's much as breathing a word about me. I'm old school Batman, I owed him. When I heard Twitty was offed I figured the debt was paid, only he hasn't stopped…he's crazy!"
"What do you mean?"
Sertus takes a deep breath and finishes his confession, "The boy I sent him, he hasn't come back…"
…
Commissioner Gordon walks slowly towards the apartment door for there is no joy in what he's about to do. Each step is heavy and painful, but he's a cop and it's his job. He has no choice. Gordon pauses in front of the door and thinks of what to say, how to break the news. 'She must have hired the hit, going back to Ricky for the killer to keep Will's memory intact,' Gordon surmises, 'it's the only feasible answer.'
Gordon is about to knock when he hears it. Just like years ago, when he swore nothing would harm her, when he came to comfort her, just like then. A faint, muffled cry for help and a rage he can't control. He takes one step back and draws his gun. A swift kick and the door flies open in splinters as he aims his gun.
"FREEZE!"
The officer is shocked by Gordon's sudden appearance and drops the tiny bundle he was to leave behind, "Son of a…"
It strikes the ground and bursts into an uncontrollable flame, consuming anything and everything nearby. The officer is the first casualty and screams in pain. In desperation he stumbles towards Gordon and the only way out. Gordon knows that a single lick from the crimson flames would spell certain doom so he pulls the trigger. A sharp crack is heard and the burning man stumbles for a second, but continues undaunted.
"Drop, damn you!" Gordon grunts as he fires again and again. Finally the body tumbles down and as he hits the floor tiny embers split off, igniting even more of the apartment. The accelerant used in the incendiary bomb turns the apartment into an inferno in only seconds. Gordon covers his face as best he could and staggers through the blaze, his eyes tearing from the smoke and heat.
"Estelle! Where are you? Estelle!" but he cannot see, nor can he hear, a thing. Not a scream, not a whimper, not a cry. 'She's one woman,' Gordon thinks solemnly, 'and this building is full of people.'
Gordon makes his way out of the apartment and reaches for the fire alarm. Soon the corridors are filled with sounds of alarm and a teeming mass of people scurrying frantically to the streets below, with the Commissioner the last to leave. Gordon sits defeated on the street as the fire department battles the raging blaze that was home to families, friends, and faces, all of whom he recognizes. Suddenly he finds it hard to breathe…
…
The glass is empty but the hand clings to it with a tenacious grip. The arm is still and unmoving, its muscles tightened and frozen in a final flex. A hand grips the grey hairs and is greeted by a bloodied face, a solitary hole the source of the crimson mask. Through the blood a familiar scar is visible stretching down the centre of the face. The hand lets go and the face resumes its place on the table with a resounding thud, "Rest in peace, Slitface." The Batman lifts a lonely tumbler with his gloved hand and peers through the light, "A celebratory drink?" He doubts there will be a single fingerprint on it, but it's better than nothing. He then pauses, hearing the news over his cowl radio.
…
A warm glow slinks into his room and is followed by the gentle kiss of the sun's rays upon his brow through Venetian blinds. A night's events cross his mind as he instinctively reaches to his left for his glasses. He pauses, perplexed, 'Odd, they should be right here.' He turns to his right and through a blurry haze manages to find the glasses. He places them across the bridge of his nose and all is cleared. His room is a pristine and sterile white, and his bed is narrow with metal rails to either side.
'The hospital.'
James Gordon knows this place all too well. He's been a frequent visitor and resident for these many years. He wishes that wasn't the case.
'Might as well check the chart.'
Gordon grunts and eases himself to the head of the bed. Reaching over he removes the board with his medical chart and lays back.
'Smoke inhalation, overexertion…'
"Ahem!" Gordon looks over the papers and spies a frowning mass of woman in front of him. A girl he also knows all to well and wishes he didn't. She snaps the chart from his hands and returns it to the bed. The nurse then begins trashing about the room and his bed, removing and reinserting things he'd rather were left alone. Gordon tips over his water glass and spills the contents onto the floor, "Oops. Sorry about that."
The nurse gives another rude frown and leaves to call for the orderly. 'Why do I always get Nurse Ratchet?' he wonders. Gordon breathes a sigh of relief as a smallish moustached fellow then comes in with mop and pail in hand and shuts the door, "Batman?"
The moustached fellow smiles and answers in a familiar whisper of a voice, "Jim."
This hasn't been the first time Batman's used this disguise to gain access to Gordon's hospital room. The Commissioner hopes it's the last, though. He's getting tired of the décor.
"Here," Batman begins, "I brought you the paper."
Gordon opens it and sees a headline splashed on the front page detailing the fire and his presence. He turns to the page covering the story and reads it aloud, "Due to Commissioner Gordon's quick actions only one person lost their life, Mrs. Estelle Harris, 85. She was the widow of the slain officer Const. William Harris, whose death signalled the end of community policing by foot. It is believed Commissioner Gordon was nearby visiting Mrs. Harris after beginning an investigation into a homicide. Police are silent on whether the two events are linked and to the cause of the fire."
The Commissioner frowns as he lowers the paper and looks up at the Batman, "It's my fault. I startled the hitman and he dropped the bomb. I killed her."
"He would have killed her, and everyone else, if you weren't there," Batman whispers as he tries to comfort Gordon.
"Batman, why would the hitman want to kill her if she hired him?"
Batman grimaces as he answers the question, "Jim, she didn't hire the hitman on her own. Her partner bought off the hitman to have her silenced."
"Who? Ricky? Sertus? What about the tapping?"
"Ricky hired the hitman, that's certain, but he wouldn't hire someone with Estelle, everyone knew he hated her guts," Batman turns to the window and frowns. Unsure how to continue he simply blurts it out, "Ricky hired the hitman as a favour for William Harris!"
"What? I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but it's not funny! I know he was a gambler, but we all have our vices," Gordon looks over to his pipe on the table, "and he paid for it! I was at the funeral! I saw his body for Christsakes!"
"That wasn't William Harris, Jim. I checked."
"You…checked?" Gordon knows what that meant and he's amazed Batman would do such a thing.
"Some hair follicles were intact and they weren't quite right. Harris was a black haired man for his entire life, but these follicles were coloured, Jim. The roots were yellow. Add the fact the dead man's molars were shot even though they should have been intact, the force did have dental coverage, and that suggests a vagrant was used as a substitute."
"Cosmo," Gordon whispers.
"Who?"
"Cosmo. Someone on Will's route. I met him a few times. Okay fellow, just down on his luck. Almost Will's height, too. He seemed to vanish after Will's death," Gordon frowns, "Why?"
"Harris owed money, Jim, you know this. He can't possibly pay up years of losses within a week so he plans an escape. Harris meets Cosmo, offers him some money, maybe tells him they're going to pull a prank or some other convenient lie. Cosmo agrees and gets set up. Poor fool probably didn't even see it coming. Harris smashes the face in to remove identification and probably smears the fingers in blood. Once dried the blood would form a layer that could prevent fingerprinting. The coroners were sloppy, or lazy, take your pick. When you have such an obvious death it's tempting to rush the job and move onto the next body. They just looked at the height; it was close enough, and the uniform was one of Harris' own. Who would suspect the heroic William Harris would try something so insane? He died a hero and fled the town, getting a new face in the process."
"Why would he come back?"
"The plastic surgeon who worked on Harris was a notorious underworld doctor. Cash only, no questions asked, except the good doctor kept a record on his clients and the procedures. None of them knew this, of course. Somehow Twitty managed to get a hold of the list and saw William Harris' name, the most famous one by far," Batman places the parchment on Gordon's bed. "He was going to use that list to make a fortune, only Harris got wind of the theft. Harris was probably the tapper, watching to make sure the hit went down. I'm not sure how he learned of Twitty though…"
"Estelle," Gordon sighs wearily, "She must have told Will. Twitty probably wanted to know if the paper was on the up-and-up and asked Estelle. She most likely offered to buy his silence, and I'm sure Twitty would've wanted more. In the end it was simpler to kill him. Seems blackmailers have short life spans in Gotham," Gordon pauses. As he looks out the window he nods slowly, "Yes. Ricky must have provided the hitman to Will. But why kill Estelle? She loved him and kept his name alive and clean all these years. She would have done anything for him, even this…this insanity!"
"Why? Jim, William Harris wasn't a hero, or a man to look up to. He was a paranoid coward. To keep his own safety intact Estelle had to be eliminated, and Ricky too. The hitman was his insurance, in case he got soft on Estelle. In the end the hitman probably would have gotten his as well, only you beat Harris to the punch."
"So where is he?"
"The only people in Gotham who saw his new face and could possibly know his new identity are dead. By the time we can find and squeeze the doctor who worked on Harris for information he could be anywhere, anyone. I'm afraid this is as good as it gets, Jim. Sorry."
Gordon can only frown after hearing his hero, his mentor, deconstructed into a paranoid psychotic. "I don't want any of this getting out."
The Batman scowls as Gordon continues, "Gotham has so little good in her, and when there is some, it's tainted. The name William Harris is seen as something tragic, and was always there to remind folks of police, and people, at their best. I'm not going to rob the city of that."
…
A grimly frowning figure stands solemnly to one side, his cane in one hand, his hat in another, revealing once thick black hairs that are now grey and thin. He knows that the night has been evil, and he knows that Satan's claws are waiting to claim him. His gambit has been a good one and afforded him an extension of sweet life, yet that time now grows short. He saw the fire, and the men, women and children huddled in the streets. He knew each one of them, long ago, as any good beat cop would. Families, friends and faces, each one with pain, rage, tears and sadness impressed in them, all because of him. He never wanted that. Ricky, Estelle, Gordon, and the others knew the game, but not them. They were the beat.
Soon he hears the train coming in the distance, its wheels clicking across each gap in the tracks. He moves ever closer to the rails. 'How appropriate,' he muses, 'a fair warning…'
For nearly one hundred and fifty years Gotham City benefited from the beat cop program, a system that placed the responsibility of safeguarding the city streets solely on the officer's shoulders, and one that none of them took lightly. Dedicated law enforcement officials would travel through their assigned neighbourhoods, each one identifying the nooks and crannies that could be used as hideouts for gangs, crooks and murderers as well as learning to navigate the streets, shops, people and the very pulse of their beat. If the community soared they would feel the pride of a job well done, and if it fell, their hearts fell with it.
That was during the day, but things changed when the sun set. Men's hearts would turn, and good souls sought sanctuary as dark hearts grew blacker still. Since its inception the police force enlisted evening patrols, a necessity since Satan's hands seemed busiest in Gotham during those torturous hours. For those hearty men first chosen to patrol the streets, there was only one night of work before they joined their ancestors in eternal slumber. A single night and a stigma was created that would last the full tenure of the Dead Man's Shift.
Immediately Gotham's council issued whistles to their constables, and henceforth man, woman and child alike huddled together in darkness while blaring whistles led to much more carnal screams as attempted thwarts of crime became slaughters. The criminals knew they outnumbered the force, and the force knew it was suicide to continue…until one night.
Tired of the death before him a young constable had given in to his basest emotions. He found a strong branch and forged from it a roughly hewed weapon, an equalizer. That selfsame night he met up with the gang, five roughs who stalked the night as silent lechers, each with grins that seemed forged from the very depths of Hell. The young officer stood his ground and beat the stick firmly across a nearby fence. The fence shattered, and was followed by each man's arms, legs and head as the boy became more beast than man. Only then did he use the whistle, receiving his fellow officers' thanks. From that moment forward each constable was given his own baton.
Through time the baton use dwindled and with the advance of firearms it was deemed obsolete. Gotham changed then, and the nights became long and painful once more for each member of the Dead Man's Shift. Their own guns were an aid but afforded little protection. There was too much darkness, too many corners and shadows and alleys where an officer wasn't afforded the chance to reach his gun, let alone use it. So the shift became a right of passage for each new member of the force. Survive the night for one year and you earn the reward of daylight, and respect. Needless to say, there were few transfers to Gotham City.
How could one survive the night when each step possibly meant disaster? How do you save your sanity when faced with a year of death? Men chose to stand idle and hide in taverns, homes and hidey holes until the shift ended; all sound means that caused a public uproar, so supervisor checks were made mandatory. They were too nervous to whistle, too scared to hum, so what was left?
Soon a single sound was heard throughout Gotham's streets at night, that of honed wood rapping gently and frequently upon the street. Fences, walls, and trash cans were being tapped upon as a nervous police officer passed by. A comforting sound to honest citizens snug in bed, and a warning to criminals to either clear away or cease and desist. Nightly carnage diminished somewhat and all agreed it was a comforting system, but transfers to Gotham were still few and far between.
Enter one James W. Gordon, young and eager, assigned to his Dead Man's Shift. His first three months were kept in the company of William Harris, a veteran of the night who knew how to keep his heart pumping. He showed young James the ways of the neighbourhood and what to do. James learned to admire Harris for his knowledge and eagerness to share it. Although a slightly jittery fellow he was a good man whose wife made a mean apple pie.
During Gordan's first month alone Harris met an untimely end. He was shot and had his head beaten in with his very own baton. The mayor, a puppet of corrupting forces, saw this as an opportunity to push for the mandatory use of squad cars and police pairings. The grieving public quickly gave in to such staunch legislation and soon the beat cop was no more. What the public didn't see were all the early retirements and pink slips dished out soon after to Gotham's experienced police, whose salaries were then given to those selfsame corrupting influences. Young James managed to keep his job, of course. A novice, his salary was low enough that the city could afford it. So Gotham's police entered a period of decline as rookies were given reign and the vast majority chose corruption as the norm, except for young James.
Gordon had learned well from Harris, and he saw to it that the favour was repaid. Although Harris' murder remained unsolved Gordon vowed that his beat wouldn't suffer like the rest of Gotham and that Harris' widow, Estelle, would live her life in peace. He continues to keep his vow to this very day as he stares down at a very still form lying face first in a pool of blood within a darkened alley he knows all too well. Now Police Commissioner, he normally wouldn't bother attending something so routine, Lord knows Gotham and murder seem to go hand in hand, but this is his neighbourhood and he won't let anything so heinous go unpunished.
Gordon's trench coat ruffles slightly in the breeze as he lights his pipe. Looking through his glasses he spies Detective Bullock approaching with a sneer across his face.
"Commish! What a surprise!" Bullock says with all the sincerity of a politician.
"Harvey," Gordon nods in acknowledgement.
"Can't see why this would bring you out," Bullock continues, "No. I can. This is 'your' neighbourhood, ain't it? Guess it finally joined up with the rest of Gotham."
"It always was like the rest of Gotham, Harvey," Gordan answers back coolly, "What do you have?"
"Nothing much. Neighbours heard some tapping and two men talking in the alley. Seems normal enough, probably a drug deal or something. They disagree on the financing package and one goes down. The few folks we talked to heard the shot. We haven't really started canvassing yet."
"Do we have an ID on the body?" Gordon asks.
"Sure, the wallet was left behind," Bullock leafs through his notebook, "Gregory Sands aka Twitty. Hunh. Guess it was information the guy wanted. Twitty was a damned good informer…"
Gordon looks over to a certain window facing the alley. He knows who lives there and something Bullock mentioned tells him he should visit. "Has anyone been to this building yet?" Gordon asks as he points to the ancient structure behind him.
"Not yet."
"I'm going in to talk to someone," Gordon sighs as he takes another puff of his pipe. He empties it and gingerly puts it back in his pocket, "I'm going to handle this case personally, Harvey. You're free to help if you want."
Bullock twirls his index finger in the air, "Whoopee."
…
A knocking sound sends her heart racing. At this hour there aren't supposed to be callers. She grabs her cane and gingerly hobbles her 85 year old frame to the bolted and barred solid oak door. The silver haired ma'am stares through the peephole and smiles at the sight of the white haired and moustached man on the other side. She carefully undoes the locks, her hands shaking, and opens the door with a warm smile.
"What a pleasant surprise," she beams, "How's Gotham's second best policeman doing?"
Gordon smiles back. Ever since Will introduced them she's always greeted him the same way. "Hello Estelle. Mind if I come in?"
"Of course not, silly! Come on in. How about a nice piece of pie?"
They sit together in her small kitchen. He takes a bite of that wonderful confection and it's like he was a young man again. Estelle was radiant as he would sit there, regaling them both with tales of Will's heroisms and pratfalls as he took it all in stride. She loved him and Jim could tell. 'A perfect union,' Gordon thinks. He then notices the empty seat beside her and his fantasy comes crashing down to the harsh reality of his visit.
"Estelle, how've you been," the Commissioner asks as delicately as possible.
"Okay Jimmy," she smiles, "The neighbourhood's been okay, except for tonight. I heard the commotion, but it's nothing new. The shot, though, was. How is the poor dear?"
"Dead."
Her face freezes into a shocked stare, "Oh my."
"Did you hear the tapping?"
She nods in answer, "Yes, Jimmy, I did, but I ignored it. William's ghost is always with me, Jimmy. Whenever I hear a clicking, or thumping, or tapping, it just brought his ghost back to my mind. I heard the tapping, Jimmy, but I always do." Her face then lights up, "You don't suppose William has come back, do you?"
The Commissioner gives his head a slow shake and asks Estelle another question, "Do you have a gun in the house, Estelle?"
"Of course Jimmy," she smiles as she gets up. Hobbling out of the room the Commissioner notices the picture of William Harris on the wall staring back at him. He feels a chill in the air as he whispers, "I'm sorry but it's the job."
The enfeebled Estelle returns with a standard police issue in her badly shaking hand. Gordon grabs hold of the gun as Estelle clears the dishes. Gordon could feel the history in the gun as he held it in his hand, and could practically see William's hand holding it.
"That's William's gun, of course," Estelle says as she washes a plate. James opens the chamber and finds it empty.
"You can take it with you if you want," Estelle continues. James shuts the chamber and sniffs the barrel. 'It hasn't been fired recently,' he concludes silently.
"I know what police work is," Estelle continues, "I was married to a cop, after all. I know you've got to check everyone here with a gun, so don't worry about it, Jimmy." She turns to him with another warm smile, "Just promise you'll visit more often."
"Thanks," Gordon answers as he slips the gun in his pocket and gets out of his seat, "For everything."
…
He knows every corner of this neighbourhood, and every soul that inhabits it. That's what makes this crime all the more unbearable. He knows what murder does to a community, especially an unsolved one. He's seen it before, when he was still a young and naïve street patroller in a once plush area that is now affectionately referred to as Crime Alley.
Gordon reaches for his pipe. He fills it and strikes a match, its tiny light finding a grimly black visage directly adjacent to him. Gordon doesn't even skip a beat as he lights the pipe and takes a deep breath, "Batman."
All goes black again and only a pair of tiny white eyes are visible, "Jim."
"It's a pretty unspectacular homicide," Gordon begins after removing the pipe from his mouth, "I'm surprised you bothered to show up."
"It's the neighbourhood, Jim," a gruff voice whispers across the darkness.
"And it's my case," Gordon whispers back with an iron determination.
"I know."
Gordon sighs. He's an accomplished detective and could probably solve this murder on his own. Only there's something in his gut, a ball, a feeling that this is the type of case where his experience might not be enough. He's learned not to ignore that feeling.
"Do me a favour?" Gordon asks. He just assumes the Batman nods in response as it's too dark to tell. "Stay on the case. I know it's probably routine, but there's something…something nagging about it. Maybe two heads are better than one?"
The two eyes vanish and the Commissioner heads to his car. There's one man he knows who can provide some answers.
…
Another moonlit night in Gotham yields a dimly lit pallor to its squalid streets and dilapidated homes. Through one window in particular the light rests across the floor revealing an apartment consisting of one cot, one chair, one desk, one filing cabinet and one toilet. The entire floor is littered in papers with each white sheet adding to the eerie glow. A gloved hand smashes through the glass pane with each tiny shard falling effortlessly onto the ground and landing silently upon the papers underneath. The hand then forces the window up.
The Batman's silhouette enters the apartment and moves through it like a wraith.
'Ransacked,' he muses as he strains his sight through the night-vision goggles. Batman doesn't bother checking the documents strewn about the floor and first scans the four walls of the room. His eyes come upon a tiny wire running from the light switch down to the floor. Batman swats the papers aside and continues to follow the wire to a tiny digital device underneath the desk.
'An incendiary bomb,' Batman thinks as he reaches into the utility belt and removes a pair of wire cutters. He snips the wire and smiles.
Rising up off the ground the Batman begins his search in earnest. 'Whomever did this didn't find what they wanted. They checked the cabinet,' he surmises as he looks at the forced drawers, 'the desk,' it's splintered and its drawers tossed casually upon the floor, 'the cot,' whose mattress is torn in two and wire frame flipped over. 'That leaves…'
Batman walks over to the toilet and finds its tank lid missing. 'They checked here too,' he construes as he looks inside the tank. Everything is as it should be, except for the ballast. He notes how the rod is slightly bent, as if supporting a weight. Curious the Batman rips off the plastic ballast ball and looks it over. He twists the two ends in opposite directions and it comes apart in two halves. Inside one is a plastic bag with a single sheet of paper. Batman smiles, 'Twitty was anything but a twit.'
He unfurls the parchment and scans it. 'Surgery?'
…
The Commissioner pulls up his car to an unassuming two storey home. He looks up at the full moon and shivers. 'Why is it,' he wonders, 'that I feel like I'm on a crash course to my grave, Will?' He takes a deep breath and with a renewed conviction scampers up the stairs and knocks heavily on the door. It takes several long moments before the porch light comes on and a round little man opens the door in his bath robe.
"Jimmy? Aw nuts," the rotund fellow curls his lip at the sight of Gordon and waves him in.
The two men sit across each other in a sparsely furnished room filled with framed pictures and news clippings detailing years from the old neighbourhood.
"I miss the old days," the man begins rudely, "So sue me. What do you want?"
Gordon goes directly to the point, "Someone died outside Estelle's place, Ricky, and I think you know something about it."
Ricky only gives a hollow laugh in response. Even in the dimly lit room Gordon could see the fine scar running through the centre of Ricky's face. "You shouldn't be here Jimmy; you should be booking that crazy broad. I seen her pointing that gun outside trying to spook the punks. Dame's nuts, I tell you!"
"You mean this gun?" Gordon responds as he pulls out the police issue and points it straight at Ricky's heart. Ricky gasps and spasms as Gordon pulls the trigger. It clicks harmlessly and the startled fat man wipes beads of sweat from his brow.
"You're as crazy as she is!" he gasps, "Damn! My heart. You maniac! I'm not a young man! That stunt could've killed me!"
"So what do you have?" Gordan asks casually.
"Have? Why should I tell you a damned thing? I paid my dues, did my time and you come in here and threaten my life! You may be a powerful man now, Jimmy, and I may have let you in 'cause of that, but I know my God-damned rights, so get the hell out!"
"Just you, me, and four walls Slitface," Gordon whispers as he puts his hand into another pocket and draws out another gun, "I know you're still in contact with the boys. You may not run the business, but surveillance says you still advise it. Want to go double or nothing?"
Ricky scratches his scar out of nervousness and smiles back at Gordon, "The body was Twitty's, wasn't it?" Gordon nods.
"You know, Jimmy, I had no problems with Will. He did alright by me and I did the same for him."
Gordon raises one eyebrow at this and Ricky's smile becomes broader, "You don't know? Will had a serious gambling problem, and I helped him out. See, he'd keep his nose out of our business and I'd let him gamble for free. We were the best of pals, until Sertus put the squeeze on and Getz was forced out. Suddenly I had to collect on Will or join my buddies on the bottom of the river. It was lose-lose and I said so. They gave me this reminder of who's in charge," Ricky points at his scar, "and off I went. Will was hurt, but he said he'd come up with the cash in a week. Instead he was pushing up daisies. So what happens? I'm given another chance to collect and three guys to strong-arm Estelle of all people. God damned morons! Still, you stopped us, didn't you Jimmy? You heard her scream and stopped us with that damned stick."
"I gave you fair warning," Gordon replies.
"Fair warning? You smashed the door in! What kind of tap is that? I tell you, kids have no respect for tradition. So, you know what happened. Estelle was the beloved grieving widow of the hero cop and we went up the river for ten years. By the time I got out I was out of the loop and stuck in this hole. It's taken me years to get back in, Jimmy, to get in touch with the old boys again. You ain't taking that from me again."
"What's any of that got to do with Twitty's murder?" Gordon asks, annoyed.
"Everything," Ricky answers with a grin. "Word is Twitty had some dope on Will. Offered to sell it, and since Will owed money it was natural someone would take him up on the offer. I guess they didn't feel like paying, though. Kind of funny it happened in the old neighbourhood, ain't it?"
"Who called the hit?" Gordon asks through gritted teeth.
"I may be back in the loop, but I'm not a part of it. I have no idea who called it."
Gordon sneers as he gets up and crosses the room, "You're still pretty sly, Ricky, but I've learned a few tricks myself." Gordon puts the guns away and removes a small tape recorder from his pocket. He rewinds and plays a bit, "Now how happy do you think Sertus will be to hear you incriminate him on Estelle's threatening and Will's death?"
"You! Damn it, you!"
"I suggest you work a little and get me something useful. Oh, and by the way, I did give you fair warning this time. I knocked." With that Gordon leaves his host.
Ricky gasps for breath and curses, "Crazy broad."
…
A pale glow continues to haunt the night as it forms rounded shadows around concrete blocks. Each stone is etched in remembrances, honours and facts detailing lives that were cut in their prime all too often. A tragic turn of events and your prone carcass is placed into Gotham's oldest cemetery to rot as your spirit travels. Trees across the plot are twisted and bent, as if detailing the paths these poor souls had taken, each one no more deserved to be here than a newborn babe. Yet here they rest as a new addition grasps onto a single stone, its billowing black cape fluttering on a cold breeze, the kind that chills the very bone.
The Batman sets down a shovel and looks around, 'Not a body in sight, but plenty of ghosts.'
'My parents,' he thinks, 'are only 50 feet away. I can make out their tombstone, even from here. Alleys, graveyards, guns, death and destruction. It doesn't matter where I go, what I do, something always brings me back to that one night, and to why I started this damned fool's crusade!'
He lifts the shovel and thumps it into the earth, "Final rest should be just that. Undisturbed and peaceful, it's what I hope my parents enjoy. I would do this with a priest, and proper documentation, except I doubt Mrs. Harris would allow it. Forgive me…" and he continues his grim task.
…
Commissioner Gordon continues his night drive across the city. Bullock radioed earlier and let him know what was found at Twitty's apartment.
"Apparently Batman got there first and left a present, an incendiary bomb, deactivated of course," Bullock's voice crackles over the radio. "Seems some sadistic SOB had it rigged to blow when someone hit the lights, which was probably going to be a cop."
'It couldn't be the same killer that got Will, could it?' Gordon questions himself. 'No. He'd be ancient by now, or dead, and I don't believe in ghosts.'
Something else is bothering Gordon. 'The tapping Bullock mentioned. Why would anyone tap before killing someone? I thought it might be Estelle trying to keep Will's decent memory intact, but she can barely hold herself up, let alone a gun. No, it had to be a hit. Unless…' Gordon presses down on the accelerator.
…
'Paydirt,' Batman silently mumbles as his shovel strikes wood. He wipes away the dirt and finds the edges of the coffin. Removing a specialized tool from his utility belt he begins detaching nails from around the wooden tomb one-by-one. A final tug and the lid is loose. Batman places a gas mask over his face and pulls up at the coffin's cover and is greeted by a ball of putrid air. Protected, he fans the vomit inducing air away and reveals a badly decayed body underneath. The flesh is nearly gone and what remains is blackened and foul. The Batman pauses, 'Mother. Father. Never, I pray I never have to see you like this. I…'
Batman regains his composure and stares down at the body. A battered skull tells the Batman that this was the Dead Man's Shift final casualty. He removes a ruler and begins measuring the body, determining the height.
'Almost exact,' he concludes.
Batman then looks at the skull. Its teeth, the front ones are either impacted or missing, but the molars are still present. They are few and far between. Then there's the hair…
Content with what he found the Batman places the corpse gently back into its bed of worms and dirt and reseals the wooden sarcophagus. With a brief signing of the cross on his person he returns the dirt. Once the pit is filled he takes the patches of grass he saved and carefully layers them on top.
'That's half the puzzle,' he finishes, 'the second half will require questioning of some living ghouls…'
…
Lights flash across a darkened room from a nearby television, the silence of the muted box occasionally broken by deep moans and yawns of the apartment's sole occupant. She has finally calmed from tonight's events only to hear the tapping once more. She sighs and cautiously moves to her feet. With each slow step the tapping seems to grow louder as she makes her way to the bolted and barred door. Peering through the peephole she sees a figure in policeman's blue standing beyond. She unfastens the bolts and opens the door. "Hello young man," she smiles warmly, "I've been expecting someone from the police. Canvassing the neighbours?"
The officer smiles in return and shoves her back into the apartment…
…
"He's crazy, Batman!" a strong voice booms. Scattered across the small room are two unconscious bodies, their guns nearby. Sitting behind the desk is a fat, bald man, whose face is creased with marks of age and distinction. He has his hands up above his head at the request of the black garbed, pointed eared creature standing on the other side of his desk.
"Who?" Batman asks in his usual gravel like whisper. A chill goes down Sertus' spine.
"I…can't tell you. If I do my whole operation goes south and me with it! I've survived 20 changes at the top because my operation is so smooth, but if this gets out I'm finished!"
Batman reaches across the desk and grabs Sertus by the throat. He grins as he lifts all 350 pounds of the little don into the air with one arm. "You're finished tonight if you don't talk."
Batman drops Sertus unceremoniously into his seat. The don clutches his throat as he desperately searches for air. "The old boy, Ricky."
"Slitface?"
"The same. He needed a job done and I owed him. He lost 10 years of his life without so's much as breathing a word about me. I'm old school Batman, I owed him. When I heard Twitty was offed I figured the debt was paid, only he hasn't stopped…he's crazy!"
"What do you mean?"
Sertus takes a deep breath and finishes his confession, "The boy I sent him, he hasn't come back…"
…
Commissioner Gordon walks slowly towards the apartment door for there is no joy in what he's about to do. Each step is heavy and painful, but he's a cop and it's his job. He has no choice. Gordon pauses in front of the door and thinks of what to say, how to break the news. 'She must have hired the hit, going back to Ricky for the killer to keep Will's memory intact,' Gordon surmises, 'it's the only feasible answer.'
Gordon is about to knock when he hears it. Just like years ago, when he swore nothing would harm her, when he came to comfort her, just like then. A faint, muffled cry for help and a rage he can't control. He takes one step back and draws his gun. A swift kick and the door flies open in splinters as he aims his gun.
"FREEZE!"
The officer is shocked by Gordon's sudden appearance and drops the tiny bundle he was to leave behind, "Son of a…"
It strikes the ground and bursts into an uncontrollable flame, consuming anything and everything nearby. The officer is the first casualty and screams in pain. In desperation he stumbles towards Gordon and the only way out. Gordon knows that a single lick from the crimson flames would spell certain doom so he pulls the trigger. A sharp crack is heard and the burning man stumbles for a second, but continues undaunted.
"Drop, damn you!" Gordon grunts as he fires again and again. Finally the body tumbles down and as he hits the floor tiny embers split off, igniting even more of the apartment. The accelerant used in the incendiary bomb turns the apartment into an inferno in only seconds. Gordon covers his face as best he could and staggers through the blaze, his eyes tearing from the smoke and heat.
"Estelle! Where are you? Estelle!" but he cannot see, nor can he hear, a thing. Not a scream, not a whimper, not a cry. 'She's one woman,' Gordon thinks solemnly, 'and this building is full of people.'
Gordon makes his way out of the apartment and reaches for the fire alarm. Soon the corridors are filled with sounds of alarm and a teeming mass of people scurrying frantically to the streets below, with the Commissioner the last to leave. Gordon sits defeated on the street as the fire department battles the raging blaze that was home to families, friends, and faces, all of whom he recognizes. Suddenly he finds it hard to breathe…
…
The glass is empty but the hand clings to it with a tenacious grip. The arm is still and unmoving, its muscles tightened and frozen in a final flex. A hand grips the grey hairs and is greeted by a bloodied face, a solitary hole the source of the crimson mask. Through the blood a familiar scar is visible stretching down the centre of the face. The hand lets go and the face resumes its place on the table with a resounding thud, "Rest in peace, Slitface." The Batman lifts a lonely tumbler with his gloved hand and peers through the light, "A celebratory drink?" He doubts there will be a single fingerprint on it, but it's better than nothing. He then pauses, hearing the news over his cowl radio.
…
A warm glow slinks into his room and is followed by the gentle kiss of the sun's rays upon his brow through Venetian blinds. A night's events cross his mind as he instinctively reaches to his left for his glasses. He pauses, perplexed, 'Odd, they should be right here.' He turns to his right and through a blurry haze manages to find the glasses. He places them across the bridge of his nose and all is cleared. His room is a pristine and sterile white, and his bed is narrow with metal rails to either side.
'The hospital.'
James Gordon knows this place all too well. He's been a frequent visitor and resident for these many years. He wishes that wasn't the case.
'Might as well check the chart.'
Gordon grunts and eases himself to the head of the bed. Reaching over he removes the board with his medical chart and lays back.
'Smoke inhalation, overexertion…'
"Ahem!" Gordon looks over the papers and spies a frowning mass of woman in front of him. A girl he also knows all to well and wishes he didn't. She snaps the chart from his hands and returns it to the bed. The nurse then begins trashing about the room and his bed, removing and reinserting things he'd rather were left alone. Gordon tips over his water glass and spills the contents onto the floor, "Oops. Sorry about that."
The nurse gives another rude frown and leaves to call for the orderly. 'Why do I always get Nurse Ratchet?' he wonders. Gordon breathes a sigh of relief as a smallish moustached fellow then comes in with mop and pail in hand and shuts the door, "Batman?"
The moustached fellow smiles and answers in a familiar whisper of a voice, "Jim."
This hasn't been the first time Batman's used this disguise to gain access to Gordon's hospital room. The Commissioner hopes it's the last, though. He's getting tired of the décor.
"Here," Batman begins, "I brought you the paper."
Gordon opens it and sees a headline splashed on the front page detailing the fire and his presence. He turns to the page covering the story and reads it aloud, "Due to Commissioner Gordon's quick actions only one person lost their life, Mrs. Estelle Harris, 85. She was the widow of the slain officer Const. William Harris, whose death signalled the end of community policing by foot. It is believed Commissioner Gordon was nearby visiting Mrs. Harris after beginning an investigation into a homicide. Police are silent on whether the two events are linked and to the cause of the fire."
The Commissioner frowns as he lowers the paper and looks up at the Batman, "It's my fault. I startled the hitman and he dropped the bomb. I killed her."
"He would have killed her, and everyone else, if you weren't there," Batman whispers as he tries to comfort Gordon.
"Batman, why would the hitman want to kill her if she hired him?"
Batman grimaces as he answers the question, "Jim, she didn't hire the hitman on her own. Her partner bought off the hitman to have her silenced."
"Who? Ricky? Sertus? What about the tapping?"
"Ricky hired the hitman, that's certain, but he wouldn't hire someone with Estelle, everyone knew he hated her guts," Batman turns to the window and frowns. Unsure how to continue he simply blurts it out, "Ricky hired the hitman as a favour for William Harris!"
"What? I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but it's not funny! I know he was a gambler, but we all have our vices," Gordon looks over to his pipe on the table, "and he paid for it! I was at the funeral! I saw his body for Christsakes!"
"That wasn't William Harris, Jim. I checked."
"You…checked?" Gordon knows what that meant and he's amazed Batman would do such a thing.
"Some hair follicles were intact and they weren't quite right. Harris was a black haired man for his entire life, but these follicles were coloured, Jim. The roots were yellow. Add the fact the dead man's molars were shot even though they should have been intact, the force did have dental coverage, and that suggests a vagrant was used as a substitute."
"Cosmo," Gordon whispers.
"Who?"
"Cosmo. Someone on Will's route. I met him a few times. Okay fellow, just down on his luck. Almost Will's height, too. He seemed to vanish after Will's death," Gordon frowns, "Why?"
"Harris owed money, Jim, you know this. He can't possibly pay up years of losses within a week so he plans an escape. Harris meets Cosmo, offers him some money, maybe tells him they're going to pull a prank or some other convenient lie. Cosmo agrees and gets set up. Poor fool probably didn't even see it coming. Harris smashes the face in to remove identification and probably smears the fingers in blood. Once dried the blood would form a layer that could prevent fingerprinting. The coroners were sloppy, or lazy, take your pick. When you have such an obvious death it's tempting to rush the job and move onto the next body. They just looked at the height; it was close enough, and the uniform was one of Harris' own. Who would suspect the heroic William Harris would try something so insane? He died a hero and fled the town, getting a new face in the process."
"Why would he come back?"
"The plastic surgeon who worked on Harris was a notorious underworld doctor. Cash only, no questions asked, except the good doctor kept a record on his clients and the procedures. None of them knew this, of course. Somehow Twitty managed to get a hold of the list and saw William Harris' name, the most famous one by far," Batman places the parchment on Gordon's bed. "He was going to use that list to make a fortune, only Harris got wind of the theft. Harris was probably the tapper, watching to make sure the hit went down. I'm not sure how he learned of Twitty though…"
"Estelle," Gordon sighs wearily, "She must have told Will. Twitty probably wanted to know if the paper was on the up-and-up and asked Estelle. She most likely offered to buy his silence, and I'm sure Twitty would've wanted more. In the end it was simpler to kill him. Seems blackmailers have short life spans in Gotham," Gordon pauses. As he looks out the window he nods slowly, "Yes. Ricky must have provided the hitman to Will. But why kill Estelle? She loved him and kept his name alive and clean all these years. She would have done anything for him, even this…this insanity!"
"Why? Jim, William Harris wasn't a hero, or a man to look up to. He was a paranoid coward. To keep his own safety intact Estelle had to be eliminated, and Ricky too. The hitman was his insurance, in case he got soft on Estelle. In the end the hitman probably would have gotten his as well, only you beat Harris to the punch."
"So where is he?"
"The only people in Gotham who saw his new face and could possibly know his new identity are dead. By the time we can find and squeeze the doctor who worked on Harris for information he could be anywhere, anyone. I'm afraid this is as good as it gets, Jim. Sorry."
Gordon can only frown after hearing his hero, his mentor, deconstructed into a paranoid psychotic. "I don't want any of this getting out."
The Batman scowls as Gordon continues, "Gotham has so little good in her, and when there is some, it's tainted. The name William Harris is seen as something tragic, and was always there to remind folks of police, and people, at their best. I'm not going to rob the city of that."
…
A grimly frowning figure stands solemnly to one side, his cane in one hand, his hat in another, revealing once thick black hairs that are now grey and thin. He knows that the night has been evil, and he knows that Satan's claws are waiting to claim him. His gambit has been a good one and afforded him an extension of sweet life, yet that time now grows short. He saw the fire, and the men, women and children huddled in the streets. He knew each one of them, long ago, as any good beat cop would. Families, friends and faces, each one with pain, rage, tears and sadness impressed in them, all because of him. He never wanted that. Ricky, Estelle, Gordon, and the others knew the game, but not them. They were the beat.
Soon he hears the train coming in the distance, its wheels clicking across each gap in the tracks. He moves ever closer to the rails. 'How appropriate,' he muses, 'a fair warning…'