The peak hour traffic was bumper to bumper out of the city. Horns were going off and tempers were raging as the sun slowly set on Gotham City. The glare from the window caused Bruce Wayne to shield his eyes for a moment. He held his hand in front of his face and looked at the word count on the document in front of him. He shook his head. "I'll never get through this," he muttered.
Bruce looked at his watch and sighed deeply. All day and not a single client. Days like these were the worst, sitting around, with nothing better to do than write up case reports and file them afterwards. Days like these though were the calm before the storm. Everything usually erupted into chaos. Bruce flipped his desk calendar over and remembered that tomorrow was Saturday. He could take the day off and relax. He recalled something his father had once said to him as a boy: "Good men never stop working, and a wise man gets someone else to do his work for him."
Bruce had loved his parents dearly. Thomas and Martha Wayne, the greatest benefactors that Gotham had ever seen. Loved by all, known by everyone. They were good people. That is until one tragic night when Bruce was just a boy. They were murdered brutally by a mugger, in cold blood. Bruce was left an orphan and was raised by the family butler, Alfred Pennyworth.
Deciding to do something good with his life to continue his parents' work, Bruce became a Private Investigator in order to combat the crime gangs that had strong influence over the city. He poured all of his parents' money into charity and grants for disadvantaged children while maintaining enough funds to get his agency off the ground. At first Wayne Detective Agency was just him, working behind the scenes for clients that had nowhere else to go. Eventually the Agency grew its client base and became successful. Some months they solved more murders than the police. Bruce was known for bending the rules to solve a case but he never crossed any boundaries. The major problem was that corruption dictated that none of the criminals ever stayed in prison long, whether it was Arkham or Blackgate, they all got out too soon for Bruce's liking.
"Bruce, do you want something to eat?"
Richard Grayson's voice pulled Bruce from his reverie. Bruce clicked saved on the document and pulled his wallet out.
"Yeah sure, let me see what I've got," Bruce replied as he shuffled through his wallet looking for cash.
"It's alright, I can pay, Bruce, don't worry about it. Let's go around the corner and grab a pizza, bring it back here and watch the ballgame," Dick handed Bruce his coat and followed him out of the door.
Dick Grayson was Bruce's senior detective. He handled the most serious cases and these days he was working more in the field than Bruce was. His respectful but charming manner meant he was more liked in the community than Bruce. Beneath his attractive appearance though was a burning desire to get to the truth. Dick Grayson's parents were also killed in a horrible set of circumstances during their circus show, the Flying Graysons. Dick's parents and himself were trapeze acrobats, successful ones at that, until one day the safety net broke and his parents fell. The circumstances of the tragic accident were murky at best and left Dick with an empty hole in his life. Taking pity on the similar circumstances, Bruce took Dick in and helped raise him. Bruce taught him everything he knew about detective work. This resulted in not only a father and son relationship, but also a sibling bond, with the two more like brothers than anything else.
Dick was now twenty five years old, seventeen years younger than the forty two year old Bruce. Even though there was a large age difference, both looked alike and were in good shape. They practiced boxing with each other almost daily and shared most of their time together.
The bell on the door rang as the two exited the building. On the corner of Gotham's two busiest roads, Wayne Detective Agency was in the heart of the city. Located all around were various restaurants, fast food outlets and supermarkets. They were heading the Guiseppe's Pizza, their favourite pizza shop. As they started walking down the street, it started to spit rain. Luckily Bruce had had the foresight to take an umbrella along. He unfurled it and held it over the two of them. A few moments later they walked into the store. Now it was pouring. It had not rained for a few weeks but this was an absolute deluge. The car lights of the peak hour traffic were blurred by the rain. The sight was oddly beautiful, and Bruce looked back out of the store for a moment, before walking towards the counter. He looked at Dick and asked him if he wanted the "usual." Dick handed Bruce a twenty dollar bill and sat down at the small waiting tables provided.
"Hi," Bruce smiled at the lady at the counter, "Could I please get two large pepperoni pizzas, both with extra pepperoni. "
"Yes, you certainly may, that will be fifteen eighty," the lady smiled at Bruce and he handed her the the bill. He turned away from the counter and sat down with Dick.
They usually didn't eat fast food that much so they could stay in good shape, but they made the occasional exception. Today they were just too tired to do anything else. Dick lived only a block from the Agency and neither were very good cooks. Bruce was too used to Alfred cooking for him growing up that he couldn't even boil an egg by the time he was eighteen years old. Alfred was Bruce's assistant but he only worked from Monday to Thursday. Bruce gave him Friday off to check in with all the charities and establishments that Bruce donated his parents' money to. Bruce trusted Alfred and Dick with his life and loved them both dearly. He pulled out his phone and saw he had received a new message. It was from Jim Gordon.
Jim Gordon was an underappreciated detective at the Gotham City Police Department who often served as Bruce's unofficial informant. The two had developed a great working relationship over the past few years and often shared dinners together. Bruce hadn't spoke to Jim in a few weeks and was glad to hear from him. The text read, "Want to get a coffee on Sunday morning? We need to talk." Bruce frowned slightly and hoped nothing was amiss. He liked order. It was comforting and predictable. But he made a living out of disorder.
He smiled at this ironic contradiction and put his phone back in his pocket. He pursed his lips and looked around the store. It was derelict and provided almost no visual appeal whatsoever, but Guiseppe's made the best pizza in Gotham. Cracks ran all over the walls and there seemed to be an apparent level of dust that had decided to stay put in the store. The smell however, thwarted every negative aspect. The rich thick aroma of cheese and tomato delighted Bruce's tastebuds. He looked at his watch. They hadn't been waiting very long but as he peered at the counter he could see two pizza boxes being handed to Dick, who had already taken the initiative to pick up the ready pizzas. Bruce held the door open for Dick on the way out and once again opened his umbrella. The rain had settled into a rhythmic pattern and Bruce knew it wasn't going to let up anytime soon.
Bruce opened the front door of the Agency and chucked his keys on the table next to the door. His apartment was accessible both from the outside and from within the Agency office. That's why he had picked this place. It was inconspicuous and an unsuspecting place. That did put off some potential clients who didn't appreciate the run down look of the place. He didn't want to walk up the steps to his apartment in the rain so he went in the Agency's front door instead.
Bruce trudged up the stairs and opened the door leading to his apartment. He let Dick through and locked the door behind him. Dick opened both pizza boxes and the room was filled with steam. "Damn, those look good," remarked Dick.
"They always do," Bruce replied. He walked into the kitchen and opened the pantry. He looked around in it for a moment before his eyes fell on a bottle of scotch in the far right hand corner. He had bought it ten years ago and was keeping it for a special occasion. Bruce decided to save it for a better night. He grabbed a bottle of lemon and lime mineral water beside it.
"Want some?" Bruce offered. Dick looked at the bottle for a few seconds and made a face at Bruce.
"I'm fine with some plain water, Bruce. Now come and have your pizza," Dick smiled warmly and plonked himself down on the couch. He slid his hand in the couch cushions, searching for the remote. His hands wrapped around it and he pulled it out, turning the tv on. The sight before Dick made him worried.
"Look at this Bruce," he said, concerned.
Bruce looked up from the kitchen. He grabbed his pizza and went down to the couch, sitting next to Dick. On the screen before them the headline read: "SERIAL KILLER LOOSE FROM ARKHAM ASYLUM." Bruce immediately grabbed a notepad from the coffee table and started writing down all the details before him on the television. He scribbled furiously, noting down everything from the news channel. Once he finished he placed the pencil on the table and looked at Dick.
"Dick, go call Jim and ask him if he's heard about this," Bruce ordered. Dick groaned sarcastically and moped over to the phone.
"Whatever you say Bruce." Dick picked up the phone and dialled quickly, he put the phone on his shoulder as the ring tone began.
"Do you think he's coming for you?" Dick inquired.
"I don't know,he could be. He was my first case, before anyone else came on board," Bruce grabbed his phone and started tapping away.
Dick picked the phone up and held it to his ear. "Yeah, we heard Jim, anything else you can tell us?" Dick heard some shuffling on the other end of the line.
"Officially, no. Unofficially there are some details I can inform you of," Jim's gruff voice sounded stressed. Bruce looked up and gestured to Dick. Dick put the call on loudspeaker.
"The two of you meet me, tomorrow. At the diner downtown, near the precinct. I'll be in the back booth with a grey hat on," Jim told Dick. Bruce nodded at Dick.
"Yeah, that's fine Jim. How bad is it?" Dick inquired. Jim took a deep breath at the other end.
"It's not pretty," he said, "We've got three guards dead and another five in critical states at Gotham General. Apparently they were killed by bombs concealed in a laundry trolley. We're launching a full investigation of it as we speak."
"Is it an inside job?"
"Well it's hard to believe that he got out without any help, but probably harder to believe that somebody would help that nutcase." Jim laughed for a moment.
"Maybe I should consider retiring on a pension, the city is so much different to when I started out as a rookie."
Dick thanked Jim and hung up. He walked over to the coffee table and turned the tv off. He grabbed the pizzas and put them in the fridge. They were in for a long night.
Bruce had searched and found three articles relating to the criminal's escape from Arkham Asylum. Most of them were sensationalised and completely inaccurate compared to what Jim had told Dick, but Bruce clicked on the Gotham Times website. His eyes opened wide when he saw the top headline.
"Clown Prince of Crime escape is no laughing matter."