The Right Notes, a batman fanfic

His fingers lick themselves and slide in the air above the keys; "Let me play you something…"

It started a week ago, with a quadruple homicide – I heard it on the radio, and saw it on the TV show when we got home. It was out in the suburbs, outside of our usual patrol; that was about to change. For the following fourteen days, sneaking around the suburbs was all we did.

Alfred is a news junkie, and was there watching the story in the Batcave when Robin and I got back. "I trust you heard about this," he said.

"Disgusting." Robin grabbed a glass of water. "A family of four, just murdered in their house?"

"There's more to it than that," I said, and he knew I was right. "There's always a motive for these sorts of things."

"They haven't come up with much so far," Alfred said, switching it off. "At least it's not on the television." He looks to me. "Hear anything over the radio?"

I grab some water myself. "Why the interest in the case, Alfred?"

"Why are you not interested, sir? You are aware that you knew the victims."

"What?" Robin and I both turn, although he wouldn't know people in Bruce Wayne's circles. "What do you mean?"

He turns the TV back on, and faces I know show up on the screen – no. It couldn't be.

"Yes of course I'll be able to attend. Uh huh. Yes, I understand. My condolences." I hang up the phone. Robin leans on my desk.

"So who were the Albrights?"

"Family friends. They offered to take me in when my parents were killed." I pause. "John Albright was a little older than me, and I went to a Christmas party of his two years ago. Nice people." And now they're dead. I sigh. "I'm afraid it's time to dig up their dirt, so we'll see what we find."

"What do you mean?" Robin asks.

"Wallets that big leave a lot of wreckage in their wake."

He cracks a smile. "Even yours?"

"Especially mine." I look at him. What have I done to this kid? We're talking about a family murder and he's grinning like he just stole cookies from his mom.

"What?"

"Nothing," I say, and think.

After sifting through the Albright's lives I feel ashamed to have ever called them friends. There are many, many toes these people could have stepped on, including those of an entire south pacific island nation that their ancestors essentially turned into a sweatshop. It might take months to work through all the evidence. I get it together and fax it anonymously from the cave to GPD.

Nothing happens for a day, and our night patrol goes well. I go to sleep relatively early, and without healing from major wounds. Then all hell breaks loose.

"This is Summer Gleason, live from Gotham's south suburban hamlet of Cornfield, where another family has been found tied up and killed. They were recently discovered but predate the murders of two nights ago by three days. The Guitterez family consisted of-"

"Guitterez?" I say, mildly interested.

"That is what they said, sir." Alfred says, and then his face changes. "You don't suppose it was – Tono Guitterez," but we watch his face and the faces of his children and wife appear onscreen. Tono is, or was, now, a department head at Daggett's company; Alfred and I met him when I threw their employees the Christmas party their employer wasn't going to that year. He seemed nice enough, and I joked about stealing him from Daggett; for whatever reason he wanted to keep working for the goon.

But now he's six o'clock news. Not only that but no one really cares about who he was – the only question on people's minds right now is, as Summer puts it, "Does Gotham have a serial killer on its hands?"

That night, when it hits the radio, we give up what we're doing and go. Another family, this time in the suburbs northwest of the city, just a few miles beyond the limits. Again, the discovery had taken place days after the crime. As we pull up to the scene in the Batmobile Dick breathes in.

"What is it?"

"That…you can't smell it?"

Suddenly I can, and it is disgusting. "I guess we have decomposition to thank for breaking the case on this one." We get out, and my favorite cop approaches.

He nods. "Batman."

"Detective Bullock."

"Listen," he says, ignoring Robin, "you've got nothing to see here. Cruise along."

"Did you get my packet?"

"What packet?" He realizes which one. "Oh, that was your evidence?"

I nod. "Anything useful?"

He debates with himself. "…alright, what do you want here?"

"What they're not telling us on TV."

He sighs. "That's not going to be much. Must've picked the lock, no signs of a struggle inside – not much at all, really."

"Can we come in," Robin asks. Bullock's eyes shoot to him, then to me.

"Your kid can talk, huh?"

"Well?" I say. Bullock fumes but knows what he's going to say.

"Alright, but don't get in any of my guys' way. You've got two minutes, then you're out of here." As we walk away he moves towards the Batmobile in an attempt at stealth – I activate the battering armor, and as the plates shift he jumps back.

"See anything?" I ask Robin; he shakes his head. Nothing at all except something that is best left undescribed in the living room; the police around seem not to have found anything either. "Any fingerprints?" I ask one.

"Nah. Guy's a pro, is what it seems like. He used chloroform on the victims before tying them up; that's about all we can get. Entered and left through the back."

We walk back outside, and I turn to Bullock. "Any chance of us fusing our investigations?"

"Don't you have old ladies to be saving from muggers? Other freaks to fight?" But he pauses as he lights his cigarette with a match. "Tell you what. I'll give you crime scene reports, witness statements, etc. But you gotta do something for me."

"Which is what," I ask as he waves the match out.

"Which is solve this shit. Do that, Bats, and we're friends. Otherwise you owe me a big one." He looks up, not having received a response. "Okay?"

I don't like making those kinds of agreements. But I want those reports. I turn to Robin, who accurately interprets my wants.

"Okay," he says, and reaches his hand out to shake Bullock's. Bullock slowly extends his, and they formalize the arrangement. I turn to go.

"Hey wait Batman!" I turn around to Bullock's call. "How do I get them to you?"

"Gordon's got a light," I say. "I'll see you tomorrow."

As we get into the car Dick makes a pertinent observation. "Someone else you knew?"

And then the context for what was left of a face in there got to me. I hit the accelerator and we fly through the 25mph streets. "Yes, actually. But I didn't know him personally. That was Ray Dennis."

"Who's that?"

"The inventor of food glue. I've seen him on TV."

"Oh, infomercials, right…you really think that was him?" I don't respond – I've given my opinion. Robin brings up what needs to be brought up. "…so, what's the link?"

I sit in the cave thinking about it. An aristocrat, a blue-collar worker, and a television salesman. One semi-famous, one not famous, one very famous. All in the suburbs. Sure enough, in the morning, they are dubbed the 'suburb killings' and given their own news graphic. People are scared.

"You know we're in the suburbs, sir," Alfred says over the anchorwoman's drawl.

"I am aware," I say. I'm also aware that you would need to be god to get through our security system, and I've never been a believer. "Any ideas, Alfred?"

"About the murders? I haven't the foggiest. Luckily we don't have a normal family here, or we might be at risk." I look up. Of course…

"You think it has something to do with a full family?"

"Well all of the current crime scenes would suggest so. Each had four members."

I turn to him, taking notes. "What about boy/girl? Were they all-"

"One boy and one girl? I believe not, sir. One family had identical twins. Also, I might note, the heads of household all work in Gotham and commute back home."

Meaning they might be followed back. "Thank you, Alfred," I say. I lean back in my chair. But this raises more questions than it does anything else. How would the killer know that each victim had a full family, if that was truly an important piece? Supposedly he spent about an hour killing each group of victims. Perhaps he wanted his crimes to last as long as possible?

A group murderer looking for large groups – if that was truly the case, then wouldn't he try to get to know the mothers? Maybe the killer infiltrates mother's groups and profiles them, follows them home – but Mrs. Albright-

"I say, sir, didn't you have some sort of meeting with the detective on the case?" I look at the clock – it's late; where's Dick? Oh well, Alfred's right. I suit up alone and make my way into the night.

"What've you got?" Bullock asks as my feet hit the rooftop. Gordon's standing in the corner; I nod, and he returns the motion.

"What do you mean what have I got? You haven't given me the pieces to the puzzle yet." Bullock's not impressed.

"Where's your sidekick?"

I ignore the question. "I figure that if the killer's specifically targeting families there might be more connections on the mother's side of the equation. You know, day care centers, that sort of thing."

"Okay, see, that's what I'm talking about." Bullock motions towards me while looking at the Commissioner. "This guy, he's pretty good, right?"

"Where's your end of the deal?"

Bullock pulls it out of his jacket. "Here you go. Have fun."

I look to Gordon. "Anything you wanted to talk to me about?"

"If this is a serial killer, the eyes of the nation are going to turn here. I'd prefer if you weren't front and center."

"That's two of us," I say.

"Three," Bullock chimes in. "I want all the credit." He's joking, but he's not. I could care. Gordon turns to talk to his detective and I jump.

Sitting on the edge of a skyscraper I glance through the photos. Nothing abnormal. Nothing remotely abnormal, save for the disgusting crime itself, and I'm not one to scare. Something swings up from my side – I tense and prepare myself for battle, but when I lock eyes with it it's Dick.

I let my muscles unwind. "Where have you been?"

"I must've got to the manor just as you were leaving. Are those the crime scene pictures?"

"Yeah." I hold the folder out toward him, hundreds of feet above the street. He takes them and flips through.

"These look the same as the other scene."

"That's what I was thinking. They're all in the living room."

"Right," Dick says. "The family room." He hands the file back. "What's up tonight? Patrol?"

I shake my head. "The scene cop said he was a pro. And if you want to find a pro-"

"…you ask the pros." I've taught him well.

His night is winding down, and we wait outside his window for him to fall asleep. He gets in the shower – even better.

"Vinnie." He pulls the curtain back to see me, and Robin tackles him from the other direction.

"What the fuck?" he says, naked and developing bruises in the bathtub. The curtain is pulled back and he is completely vulnerable.

"I need information," I say.

"Yeah, you never come by for lunch, that's for sure." He checks his arm. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the suburb murders."

He looks up. "So you hear about some guy killing kids and you come to me? Thanks."

"The guy's a pro, Vinnie. You hear anything about the murders?"

"None of my friends." Without turning I dodge my eyes to Mr. Grayson. He moves in. "Okay, okay – shit." Dick backs off. "So what are you looking for, someone who gets off killing families?" I nod. "And he's a pro, huh? What kind of pro?"

"The kind that uses chloroform and leaves no signs of a struggle."

"Sounds like a CIA guy. Or corporate assassin. Not my crowd. Most mob guys aren't that kind of neat freak." He looks up at me, and I can tell he's telling the truth. "Someone who kills babies, is also not my crowd. We have a code. Most of us, anyway." He seems hurt at the implication, and stares at the bottom of the tub. But I don't care about Vinnie L.'s feelings; I hurt people's feelings all the time.

"What about any hit on John Albright?"

"Never heard of him. Until, uh, this week, on the news."

"Tono Guitterez?" He shakes his head. "We'll be back." And we're gone.

"Get anything from that?" Dick asks as we climb down the fire escape.

I crack my neck as we hit the floor. "If it was a government job, they'd have called him off already. No one needs that kind of press. And it's not an assassination, for the same reason."

"What if the other murders are meant to call attention away from one of them?"

"I doubt it. I think what we've got on our hands is someone gone AWOL."

The fourth murder blew our pattern open. A widowed old lady, the kind Bullock says we save from muggers; alone in her house, tied up and tortured in the same way. Tied up and tortured…

"What if he's trying to get information out of them?"

"Excuse me sir?" Alfred turns from the television, where some senator is giving a speech.

"The torture, what if it's just a means of getting information out of the victims?"

He shrugs with his eyes. "That begs the question of what all those people would have in common that he would want to question them about."

Hmm. Tono Guiterrez – possible insider information. John Albright – the same. Ray Dennis –…the secret to food glue? 'Mammie' Lakes - ?

"They say they were all lifetime Gotham citizens, you know." Alfred flips to a channel covering the story. I look up from my notes.

"Really. Who's they?"

"Why the tube, sir. Perhaps you should catch up on their speculations."

I sit in front of the TV all evening, absorbing the commentary of various channels and amateur detectives as I look over the pages given to me by the real deal. No one seems to have anything more than anyone else.

When we reach the rooftop there's no one but Bullock. "What have we got," I ask.

"What have you got," he counters.

"I'm working on it."

"Your day care theory might pan out. Mrs. Lakes babysat for her daughter."

"She did?" How could I have overlooked that?

"Yeah." He pulls out another folder of photos. "Here's your scene. Got anything new?"

"My sources say it might be a government guy."

Bullock laughs. "What, you think the feds are doing this?"

"Maybe an ex-agent. Someone gone AWOL."

He sighs. "We'll liaise with certain agencies, but it'll just be deny, deny, deny." He pauses, and looks out over the skyscrapers. "Why Gotham, though, you know?"

"These things happen."

"Yeah but I mean, there's a lot of cities on the Atlantic. Why just stick to one place?"

"It's the biggest," Robin says.

Bullock laughs to himself. "That and the cops are all overworked," he says. "I had a triple right before this."

Why indeed.

Reviewing the scene with Robin a few patterns are reinforced – it's the living room. All the houses are large and in the suburbs. I can't make heads or tails.

"Do you have the other photos?" Robin asks.

I pull them out. "Yeah, why?" He has an expression like he just caught something.

"It's probably nothing." But as he looks over the pictures he changes his mind.

"What is it?"

"Look here," he says, pointing.

"…I don't see it."

"The window," he says. He flips through the other photos – he's right. All four of the houses have large windows in the living rooms. Windows from which – "The killer could have seen the families before he broke in."

"Good eye," I say, and pat the kid on the back. "Good eye."

Summer's back on the TV – "All families are advised to keep their windows closed as the killer may be watching houses before he enters. While Mrs. Lakes has no children of her own, she was babysitting her daughter's children the day of the murder; the Gotham Police Department believes the murderer may have seen the children and come back for them later that night."

Bullock's face fills the screen, and his name appears at the bottom. "What we're dealing with here is a professional, possibly an assassin gone AWOL. He or she is extremely dangerous. We urge Gotham's citizens to take all possible precautions."

"Back to you, James."

"Thank you Summer. Other top stories…"

Alfred smiles. "Master Dick's theory on the evening news. That is something."

"I just hope it holds water," Dick says, eating the chicken Alfred cooked yesterday.

"We'll see," I say. Somehow I don't think it's going to be that easy.

And I'm right.

We're waiting when Bullock opens the roof door. "You could knock," he says somberly, and pulls out the pictures. They're not going to be pretty.

Gordon's here. "You heard it on the radio?"

I nod, and open my mouth, but Robin's already speaking.

"It breaks with every pattern we've got. No kids, not a house…"

"…he even shot some beforehand," I say, pointing to the pictures as Robin looks over my shoulder. I look to Bullock. "Did he set off the alarm?"

"He cut it out first," Gordon says. "The guy's a real professional." We're all a little down – having a murder of fifteen double the body count on the case is no one's idea of fun.

"And we know it's him," Robin says, rhetorically. I flip up a picture for Dick; it's him alright.

I look up. "And the church, did it have any open windows?"

"Nah," Bullock says. "This one's a curveball."

Damn. I start to walk off, and Robin turns to follow. "We'll let you onsite," Gordon says. I pause and turn around. "Whatever you need."

"I'll think about it," I say, and we jump off the building.

Fifteen dead, in a church, during choir practice. Some of them aren't tied up, but there's traces of chloroform everywhere – he used a grenade.

"Who is this guy?" Robin says.

"Welcome to life, kid." But he's been here before. And he's not sixteen anymore. I look to him as we settle on a building. "Sorry, I didn't mean to call you-"

"It's okay." Suddenly we look up as the batsignal's turned back on. "What the…?" Robin says.

"We've got another scene," Bullock says as we hit the roof again, shining in the still-on light's glow. He pauses. "You two need a ride or something?"

We turn him down and get the Batmobile, showing up before he does. 1015 Pleasant St, just inside the city limits on the southwest side. Cops have cordoned off the area, and we walk past the tape and their complaints.

This must have been the first murder – the bodies are in a rough state of decomp, but their mutilation is still easily apparent. Five people, three adults and two kids. Robin's facing the other direction. I turn around. "What is it?"

He turns away. "Nothing, just a…nice piano." He's been taking lessons.

Oh my god.

I bend over and pull out the crime scene photos, flipping through. "What's up, Bats?" Robin says, and leans in over me. I put five scene photos down, and Robin starts to get the picture. "What, you don't think…" He stands back up, and looks back to the piano. "Hmm."

I stand up. "Let's go."

I feel like a peeping tom. Well, actually, right now I am. They're both looking away, and it looks like she's enjoying this; I hate to break it up.

I shatter the window. Wait, no I don't.

"Aah!" He pulls out and looks up. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I need some time with your John," I tell her as she starts to stand up.

"That's my girlfriend, jerk!"

She stands and covers herself with a sheet, walking towards the living room. "Love the suit," she says about mine, and runs her hand over it. Robin watches her walk away.

"Kicker Williams," I say.

"What about him," Vinnie asks.

"Is he still around?"

"Piano Man? He's dead and gone."

"DON'T lie to me." I tug at the mattress, and he falls to the floor.

"You know I'm just a fucking hit man, right?" he says as he gets up and puts on his glasses. "I don't know much."

"What you do know is useful. And you know, I-"

"-lay off me a little, I know. And I appreciate it." Robin looks at me, surprised. Welcome to life, kid. "Kicker…alright, well, the rumor was he died. I don't know for sure. But I know he stopped working, that's for sure." I think I see Vinnie shudder. "Real freak, that guy."

"From what I remember, he liked music," I say.

Vinnie laughs, and grabs some whiskey. "Yeah, you could say that. I mean we called him Piano Man." He takes a shot.

"Refresh my memory."

He shakes his tongue out. "Music turned him on."

Robin turns from watching something out the window. "Turned on – you mean sexually?"

"No, kid; like, turned on for murder. He would tie a dude up, or someone would tie them up, and then he'd put on an LP of classical music and go to town. Fuckin crazy."

"You think it's him in the suburb murders?"

"Why, they have a piano?"

"Every house."

He pauses. "Well, uh…I guess it could be. Kicker always was more of a professional than a lot of the guys. He knew how to not leave a trail. Maybe he faked his death."

"Why would he come back?"

"I don't know, do I look like I'm fucking crazy?" He leans over to pour himself another shot and I nod to Robin. We leave. "Maybe he got tired of…"

"So what now," Robin asks me as we light on a rooftop. "You think he's just looking into houses and seeing pianos?"

"Pianos, families…I don't know. But we have to follow the lead."

The grid is somewhat confusing, but he flips off the right house. As the lights go out he creeps around to the back door. He likes neighborhoods like this. It's hard to find them, but when you do… The space between the houses is vast, and no one can hear anyone else scream.

There are no dogs; he checked this earlier. There are at least two people. It's perfect. He opens the door, and enter…

"Freeze!" It's a cop, with a gas mask. The door shuts behind him and a second comes in, staying just out of his reach…he decides to take it slow.

"..well well," he says.

Gordon, Robin and I stand and chat while Bullock approaches us, outside of the scene. "He's in there alright." He shakes his head. "I thought we were on a wild goose chase – 73 bait houses, Jesus Christ."

"We appreciate you using your manpower, commissioner," I say.

"Well I appreciate you not wasting it, Batman."

Bullock turns to me. "I still don't trust ya, but you pulled through on this one. I owe you one."

"That goes for me too," the commissioner says. Suddenly something sounds out over the empty streets – a lilting concerto…

Robin straightens up. "Is he..."

"Oh yeah," Bullock says. "He asked if he could play the piano while we wait."

"NO!" I run towards the house, but before I reach the door there are gunshots, and a scream. I wrestle the door open and see a man run through the house, towards the back. "Robin!" I say, but I look both ways and he is nowhere to be seen. I make my way around the back and see the boy wonder chasing our man out into the woods…

I shoot a grappling hook up into an oak and swing into the trees. There is no sound in the darkness, and I stand on a branch while my eyes adjust to the light. "Robin," I whisper.

Someone grabs my leg and I fall. I look up to see a terrible man, holding a scalpel, ready to stab. "Batman. Pity we had to meet like this." He brings his arm down, and-

Robin plows into him, knocking him over but not loosening the blade from his grasp. They grapple in the foliage, and I stand, but can't seem to find a way in – suddenly Robin's hold fails, and the Piano Man raises his arm, his scalpel glinting in the moonlight, gravity about to bring it down –

THUNK

Robin's grappling hook is stuck in the Piano Man's chin, having ripped it fully open. I quickly run over and pick up the scalpel, subduing the man, whose eyes are watering from pain. "Robin, take it off him," I say, and he loosens the now-bloody gadget. We drag him out of the forest, and he turns to Robin.

He touches what was his chin as he cries in pain. "I'll get you, I swear."

Robin smiles again. "Try."

"So why do you do it," I ask.

He looks at me like I'm joking. "Why?"

"I like closure," I say.

"It's simple," he says. "Killing is like music – you've just got to hit the right notes…"

The cops meet us in the backyard. "Good, you got him," Gordon says, and I'm happy to hand him off – I am disgusted. Suddenly journalists are there as well, and we are gone.

"The suburb killer has been caught, and in a bizarre twist the Batman and Robin apprehended him as he fled the scene after killing two police officers."

The national anchorman tries to make sense of what he's heard. "I'm sorry, the who, Summer?"

"Local criminals, John."

"Local criminals," Alfred says, and switches the TV off. "She could have at least said vigilantes."

"People aren't supposed to understand us, Alfred. That's not why we do what we do."

"Amen to that," Dick says. "Sometimes I don't understand why we do what we do." I get up and walk to the kitchen. Sometimes I don't either, but in times like this, we do what has to be done.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The insanity defense went well, and he is being led into the depths of Arkham Asylum. He walks quickly through the common room.

A ping-pong table, a TV – a large, blank wall with a set of paints. And there, in the corner, is a toy baby grand piano.

He blinks. And smiles.