The sun had dropped fast, leaving the penthouse of the Slate Apartments bathed in warped shadows. Its occupant, Gerry Hollander, rested his careworn head on a soft pillow as he watched the evening news. He had spent much of that Saturday at the office, trying to make several columns of large, suspicious numbers add to zero, as his unusually large pay packet required him to do. His day had gone so badly that he was hardly surprised when his plasma television flickered and switched itself off mid-story.
Sighing heavily, he extended his arm and tried to flick his upright lamp, the only light within reach, on. No response. Flicking the switch a couple more times in frustration, Gerry looked about and saw every appliance in the room was off. Again, there was nothing surprising about this, given the state of Gotham City's power grid. He was a little confused, however, when he looked out his lounge window and saw a couple in the neighbouring apartment building huddled together on their sofa, also watching the evening news.
As he pulled out his cell phone to call maintenance, Gerry gave a start. His bedroom clock radio had been switched on, and was playing a lively classical piece. Gerry was exhausted, but he was no fool. He knew enough to realise that his job was, as far as accounting positions go, a dangerous one, and he could very well be in danger now. He entered 911 into his phone and put his shaking thumb over the call button. As an added precaution, he went to his kitchen drawer and drew out a long, thin carving knife with his other hand, rattling the contents of the drawer as he did.
Gerry stepped almost silently to his room, but he was breathing hard and could find no way to quiet it short of holding it altogether. His pulse thought he had just run up eighteen flights of stairs, and he could feel each beat of his heart throbbing in his left temple. He gave an involuntary start when somebody said his name softly, almost in a whisper.
'Gerry? Is that you?'
Gerry knew he was discovered, but could not recognise the whisper. 'Who is this?'
The whispered voice waited a few seconds before answering. 'See for yourself.'
Gerry was understandably hesitant. When he entered the doorway and saw a man sprawled coolly on his bed, he instinctively hit the call button on his mobile.
The man on the bed was slight and very pale, with blond hair shorn close to his scalp. Gerry's eyes were drawn to the man's nostrils, which were caked with blood. His eyebrows were practically non-existent, giving him a perpetually surprised appearance. There was nothing fearful about the way he sat up and began to close on Gerry. Instead, his forehead was lowered, and he leered from under his non-existent brow.
Gerry lunged at his attacker, thrusting at the man's throat, attempting to catch him before he could get balanced. The attacker slid effortlessly out of the way, but the blow was close enough to glance the attacker's cheek. The wound was small, but blood flowed freely from it.
The attacker lost none of his composure, or his aggression. His fearlessness made Gerry question the wisdom of a second attack, or the usefulness of attempting to flee.
'Now, now, Gerry,' whispered the stranger, his voice barely carrying over the violins playing on the clock radio, as he scraped at the blood with his thin, bony hands. 'I don't have the luxury. Waste not, want not.'
The attacked pulled a tazer from his back pocket with ridiculous ease, his facial expression unchanged. The vacant eyes of his attacker were the last sight Gerry Hollander knew.
Bruce Wayne was preparing himself for a gruelling evening, although he knew it would not be entirely without its pleasures. With Greta, an aspiring actress consisting mostly of legs and waist-length blonde hair, on his left arm, Bruce felt surprisingly ready for a charity benefit. This feeling was heightened by the presence of Helena, the swimsuit model who clung with both of her slender hands to his right arm. Still, not a single head turned when the trio entered. Greta, sensing that she was not about to get as much of the crowd's attention as she had hoped, headed straight for the open bar. Almost immediately, the organiser of the evening, Dr Leslie Thompkins intercepted Bruce and took him by the hand. Dr Thompkins had been a close personal friend of Bruce's late parents, and was responsible for organising the charity benefit to raise funds for Gotham City's largest drug and rehab clinic.
'Bruce, so lovely to see you,' said Dr Thompkins, who also happened to be Bruce's godmother. She stood on her toes to kiss Bruce's cheek and shone with pride.
'And you, as always,' he replied. He motioned toward Helena. 'I'd like you to meet Helena Church. Helena Church, Dr Leslie Thompkins.'
'Oh, you're a doctor?' replied Helena, genuinely perplexed. She spoke slowly, as if she assumed Dr Thompkins to be hard of hearing. 'I thought you'd be retired?'
Bruce winced, but Dr Thompkins bore it admirably, swiftly changing the subject.
'Bruce, dear, there's somebody I'd like you to meet.'
Dr Thompkins whisked Helena and Bruce through the crowd toward a relatively large circle of revellers. At the centre of its focus was a tall man of about Bruce's age, impeccably dressed, and with an All-American jawline that would dwarf most people's entire heads. He seemed particularly eager to meet Bruce, and stopped in the middle of an anecdote about a Romanian ironing board factory while Dr Thompkins made the necessary introductions.
'Bruce Wayne, this is Brad Slate.'
'Mr Slate.' Bruce casually extended a hand.
'Bruce.' Brad Slate nodded a greeting and took the hand, stepping in closer and grinning through a row of perfectly straight teeth. Bruce could not help but notice the way Brad sized him up. 'Call me "Brad",' Slate added, in a deep baritone. It was all Bruce could do to keep from laughing at the pomposity of it all.
Bruce knew Slate only by reputation. Slate was wealthy, and almost self-made; it was the 'almost' part that stung. He had his start at eighteen when he won 15 million as a first division prize in a national lottery. But his positive traits were not limited to extremely good fortune. He had enough ingenuity and discipline to defy statistics and triple his winnings in the next five years. Twelve years on, his holdings were worth just shy of 900 million. Those born into money had little time for him. Others, if they were ambitious, treated him like some kind of a human Blarney stone, staying close and kissing up. Most people were, however, just attracted to the fame, and happy to listen to a fresh, youthful perspective on business.
'Welcome to Gotham,' said Bruce, unmoved by Slate's reception. 'Rumour has it this isn't just a visit?' Bruce wished he was wrong. Otherwise he'd be seeing 'Call me Brad' at every public event for the next fifty years. They were often intolerable as it was.
'That's right, Bruce. I'm planning to operate out of Gotham. Crazy, I know, given the current "situation". But hell, I've never been accused of being "conventional". Quote, unquote.'
If there was one type of person that annoyed Leslie Thompkins, it was the type who used clichés incorrectly. But when somebody has just donated 50,000 to your organization, most shortcomings can be overlooked.
'Brad, why don't you tell Bruce about your new Atlantic shipping operations', she suggested, sensing that Bruce was not about to volunteer to prolong this conversation.
'It would be my pleasure.' There was something about the way the word 'pleasure' forced its away out of his colossal jaw that made Bruce wonder whether breaking it could possibly cause any swelling. The two minutes that followed could have formed the study material for an instructional lecture entitled 'How to Look Interested When You are Actually Thinking About Sailing'. Bruce had a remarkable knack for knowing when to fake a laugh, even when his mind was somewhere in the South China Sea.
Bruce was almost relieved when he realised he had to make an excuse to those present. He had caught sight of the Bat Signal, shining against the backdrop of the misty Gotham sky. He made a hasty excuse involving a feigned phone call and a business problem that those present would be sure to understand, and made an exit. Helena was mildly disappointed.
'Dried?'
'Drained, completely. Only a ounce or two of blood left in the entire body.'
Lieutenant Gordon had told Batman of the remains found in the penthouse of the Slate Apartments. The body had several puncture marks where needles had been inserted into major blood vessels, and the blood drawn from them. There were no prints and no other wounds save for where a modified tazer had pierced the skin. The only other signs of foul play were some hurried, but effective, tinkering with the apartment's electrical systems.
'That's not all,' continued Gordon, in a hushed tone. 'The guy who called it in. Real soft voice. Said he wanted you two to get better acquainted.'
'I can arrange a meeting.' Batman's deep monotone was always reassuring. 'Tell me what you know.'
'His MO matches that of a guy who's been running rampant in LA for years, from what we know. He likes to go to his victims where they're most comfortable, and as far as we can tell, he likes to get a little sport out of it. Cops call him 'The Leech'. Never been caught. Never even left a print. Plenty of DNA, though.'
'Hair?'
'Blood. Where he leaves a victim, he almost always leaves blood. Just not the victim's blood – they never have any wounds to speak of.' Gordon sounded a little disconcerted by the prospect of Gotham becoming the new home for The Leech. Batman cast an eye over him as they stood side by side on the moonlit roof, looking out toward the ocean. Gordon was a good man, and very competent, but with dark rings around his eyes and an unironed shirt, he looked overwhelmed. With half of Arkham still loose, the last thing Gordon needed was an imported killer.
'How do I find him?' asked Batman, terse as always.
'Thought you said you could arrange a meeting.'
Silence. Gordon continued, a little smug.
'He said you'd know when the time was right. That was it. Spoke to him myself – creepy as hell.'
Lieutenant Gordon looked to his right, where Batman had been. Without a sound, Gordon was alone again.