A Study in Fear : Part I
The rain was biblical in proportion. Or at least it was to Dutch, who had all the religious beliefs that you could write on a postage stamp. His last night in Gotham, and he would spend it underneath a torrential downpour. Of course, he could stay home, but going out was all part of his last night in Gotham.
Dutch was a crook, a safe cracker and expert lockpick.. or he had been.. until The Batman. Now he could hardly move the fingers of his left hand, and the nagging pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable in the damp. In tonight's wet it had already started to ache even though his jacket and heavy jumper. The ache brought back the memories, and the memories brought back the fear..
It had been an easy job. Three men: One to drive the van through the doors of the warehouse, another to help the first load whatever loot was to be found into the truck, and Dutch to bust into the office and raid the safe. He'd done it a hundred times before, even if the two kids that Boss Marco has set him up with hadn't; but everyone had to start somewhere, and apprenticeships are a tradition alive and well in the criminal fraternity. Dutch didn't ask what was in the safe, that was for Boss Marco. He knew he'd get his cut of the loot from downstairs plus a generous gratuity from the Boss.
The job was simple, and should have been smooth, except that someone else already had plans for the warehouse. Dutch had expected a night watchman, maybe two, and had stashed a heavy cosh inside the duffel bag he used to carry his kit. As the van revved up some hundred yards from the door of the warehouse, Dutch slipped it out of the bag and fixed it tightly in his grip. He'd never had to use it; and that fact had made it almost a lucky charm to him. Dutch was a skilled crook who didn't like resorting to violence, and he hoped this job would be like the rest.
Dutch felt the van began to move, and shortly his was hurtling forward as fast as the engine could take it. With his free hand Dutch gripped onto a hanging loop of rope in the back of the van as he saw the doors approach. The driver let out a yell of premature triumph as the last few yards were eaten up. Dutch closed his eyes as the van hit the doors and felt the brief moment of motionlessness before the doors crumpled inwards from the impact of the van. The van skidded to one side as it careered through the doors, the driver cursing as he fought against the momentum of the machine. Dutch opened his eyes as the van came to a stop, and was face to face with a scene he would remember for the rest of this life.
Everyone in Gotham knew the Joker. His grisly reputation had become a part of the folklore of the place. Children un safe suburban homes where told gruesome tales of the Joker to keep them in their beds, and in the seedy bars and clubs which housed the city's criminal underclass his name was synonymous with some the bloodiest and bizarre crimes in the cities history. It was said that the Joker had a finger in every criminal pie in Gotham and that tribute paid to him was as close to guaranteed safety from the lunatic as anyone would ever get within the city limits. The Joker pulled jobs of his own of course, but to a professional criminal like Dutch these were nothing more than the attention grabbing antics of a madman bent on conflict with the one nemesis that every criminal in Gotham feared. As Dutch opened his eyes, the van still rocking gently from side to side it was the face of the Joker that greeted him.
Inches from the glass of the windshield the Joker's eyes burned through the glass. Even though Dutch was inside the van the Joker was the one with the look of the caged animal. Drool ran from one corner of his mouth, a mouth locked in a permanent maniacal grin. Dutch could see the body of the warehouse's night watchman behind the Joker, spread-eagled on the floor. Blood was pooling like thick red tar underneath him, but Dutch couldn't see what had happened to him. It seemed like the Joker stared at Dutch for hours, not saying a word. In reality it couldn't have been more than a second, and it wasn't until the Joker's two burly henchmen dragged the driver and the other passenger out of the van that Dutch's senses started processing at full speed again.
The driver was on the floor, screaming for mercy, clawing at the leg of his assailant. A dark, wet, patch stained the front of his trousers; his terror getting the better of him. The Joker looked at him pityingly, and with a nod signalled to his henchman. The henchman pulled him to his knees and dragged him in front of the Joker. The Joker looked at Dutch, who sat rigidly in the front of the van, then back at the driver. He was nothing more than a kid, twenty at most, and Dutch could hardly look as the Joker held the boy's face between his cold white hands. Tears rolled down the face of the boy as he stuttered desperately "We don't know Mr. Joker... We didn't know. We'll go, we 'aint see ya."
And the Joker answered. In the years to come, when Dutch woke screaming in his bed remembering this night, he would never be able to remember what the Joker's voice sounded like. He could remember the word's he said, every single one, and the details of the place, but he could never remember the voice. He could only remember the feeling he got as he heard it; like someone was pouring treacle into his ear, hot and sticky, burning the flesh as it ran into his brain... Dutch supposed that when the Joker spoke, that was what madness sounded like.
"But you have seen me. And my gang. You've seen us here, in this place, doing naughty naughty things. You might not tell your mother or your brother or your friends; but I take the risk you won't tell the Bat?"
"I won't I promise.." sobbed the driver.
"The Bat can be very persuasive...." The Joker said. He was pondering his position, the twisted chains of logic that ran in his mind as valid to him as our own are to us. "If and if you tell the Bat we were here, he'll know what we took... and if he knows what we took, he'll know what we want.. and if he knows what we want then he'll know why..." there as a moment of almost palatable silence "AND THAT WON'T DO AT ALL!"
Dutch could hear the bones in the kid's face crack as the Joker tightened his grip, as if he would squeeze the very life out of he boy. The kid squealed in pain and the Joker dragged the boy's face to his chest. And then the boy screamed. The scream was ear piercing, almost inhuman, and Dutch could see why as the boy fell away from the Joker. His face was steaming; a fine red mist trickled off it as he hit the floor. Whatever the Joker had sprayed him with had turned the flesh of his face to a thin greasy fluid that ran off his skull like oil. It pooled on the floor around his head and he twitched and jigged. Somehow, he was still alive even as his eyes began to stream out of the sides of his eyes. Dutch watched, unable to move speak or breath until the kid let out a rattling moan and finally lay still. His clean bleached skull was plainly visible, with only a few thin strands of flesh left to hold it in place.
For the first time since he had locked eyes with the Joker, Dutch realised that he was still holding tightly to his cosh. It fell from his fingers and clattered to the floor of the van between his legs. He could feel his knees knocking together as his legs started to spasm. He fought with every ounce of his will for them to stop, for the noise of their motion to stop, which to Dutch was deafening.
That was when it happened. A noise from above, the shattering of glass and a shape in the night that Dutch had never dreamed he would be glad to see. The glass rained down, refracting the mix of starlight and artificial light that lit the warehouse floor to create a mosaic of colour that hung in the air as the shape loomed, black and terrible behind it. Under other circumstances it would have been beautiful. The Joker's henchmen pulled guns from holsters and began to fire at the shape. The crack, crack, crack of the guns was deafening. The stench of gunfire rose into the air. Joker was running for the stairs to the manager's office as the shape fell closer. It fell and fell, twisting elegantly in the air until it landed...
The shape hit the floor soundlessly; for a second it was only a shape. A mass of black that slid and slithered around. Then it rose; gained definition, a new shape. The shape of a man? The shape of a bat? The shape of a monster?
The Batman.
The goons stopped firing, dropped their guns and ran. The shape that was the Batman moved quickly, letting fly spinning disks of black metal that hummed as they cut the air. The first took one of the goons in the back of his left knee, sending him sprawling into a collection of crates. His impact toppled the rest of the crates down on him as he lay helpless. The second disk caught it's mark behind the his right ear and he crumpled to the floor as if his legs had simply ceased to function. The shape that was the Batman turned towards the stairs to the office, it's cape swirling like enormous wings behind it. It moved, flowed, flew towards those stairs. Dutch remembered thinking "it can't be human" as the shape seemed to reach the top of the stairs without covering the distance between, simply willing itself into to a new place. Dutch knew this was crazy of course.. He also knew he had to get out of here. The Batman was distracted, he had the Joker to deal with, and Dutch could still salvage his freedom from tonight. After what had happened to his driver, just staying alive was enough profit for Dutch, alive and free? That was a good score! Grabbing his cosh and tool bag Dutch jumped out of the van. He was only seconds away from the main doors, which lay in disarray from the van's forced entry. Dutch ran for it, trying not to look at the driver's body which lay steaming and popping just feet away.
Dutch only heard what happened next. The shattering of more glass, muffled gun shots, a crash and a bellowed .. "STOP!"
Dutch kept running. If the "stop" had been for him it was too late, he was home free, if not then..
Suddenly Dutch was running straight towards that shape that he had though he had left behind. It fell from above; it's shadow rising over him from behind. The shape arced through the air overhead, landing in silence in front of him. It stood, stopped, stared. The thin white slits in the mask that hid the Batman's true face locked with Dutch's own eyes. Blood was trickling out of the corner of the Batman's mouth and a deep cut across his left shoulder leaked crimson down the dark greys and black of his tunic. "He's human" thought Dutch; and feeling the cosh still firm in his hand he felt a renewed sense of himself. "He's human and hurt".
Dutch didn't stop. He raised the cosh and kept running. A roar of defiance came to his lips as it had come to the lips of the young driver only minutes before. The shape didn't move. It waited. The Batman waited. Dutch grew closer, every foot of distance bringing him closer to destiny. If he could just get past him, knock him aside, make him dodge.. The Batman waited. With a second to spare Dutch swung the club. It whooshed through the air, aimed directly for the Batman's head. The Batman moved. His left arm came up, easily deflecting the blow, shattering the club with his immense forearm. Shards of wood flew in all directions as the Batman spun with the deflection, closing the gap between himself and Dutch in a second. His right arm followed the path of the left, coming down of Dutch's extended arm. As it did so, the left arm was on it's return journey, and the tow met simultaneously across the top and bottom of Dutchs arm. There was a load snap and a shock of numbing pain that ran from Dutch's wrist of his shoulder. The Batman spun away, releasing his grip on Dutch and sending him head over heels out of the door and into the street. Dutch remembered almost welcoming the unconsciousness that was the inevitable result of the impact of his head on the sidewalk.
Eighteen hours later Dutch was released from the hospital into police custody. His arm in plaster and a sling, the doctor berating the police officers who took him away for condoning the "ruthless vigilantism" that was the Batman's stock in trade. The doc had told him he was lucky that the damage had not been more severe, and that the loss of a few tendons would affect his finer motor skills. Dutch knew better. He wasn't lucky. The Batman had known exactly what he was doing. The heavy bag of tools that Dutch had been carrying marked him as more than any common thief. It marked him as a tradesman, and expert, and a career criminal. The damage to his arm had ended that career and the Batman knew it, just like he had known where and how to hit Dutch to end that career.
Dutch shook himself, trying to shift the ache out of his shoulder and his back. His last night in Gotham and he would spend it waiting on the street corner for an unmarked van full of guys he would only know by name and reputation. He was just muscle on this job, a lifter, and maybe some of the boy's might now the story of how Dutch had lost everything and ended up just another petty criminal. He would tell those who didn't, as they waited in the cold and the dark of the back of the van. Maybe some of them might learn the lesson that Dutch had learnt. Sure, after his first run in with the Bat he had tried to carry on the same life. His skill was gone however, and he didn't make the grade as muscle for any of the big operations. Dutch still didn't like violence. Gotham had changed, and Dutch had changed, and tonight was his last night in Gotham. Tomorrow he caught a bus to anywhere and started a new life. All he needed was his cut from this last job. Maybe he would tell the guys this as well..
A van cruised slowly around the corner and flashed it's lights at Dutch. He stepped out into the street and raised his hand. The van slowed and stopped next to him, and he climbed in through the side door which was already open. Kids, thought Dutch as he found himself a place to sit, the van was full of kids. Remembering what had happened to last bunch of kids that the boss had sent out with him; Dutch was amazed that he had gotten this job. Sat with his back to the side of the van, the kids chatting, joking and bragging all around him, he decided not to tell his story.
