"Let's start from the beginning again, and let's not omit the facts that actually matter in this case," Judge Alan Kroker declared, shuffling through the papers to find the seed of the impossible mess. Everywhere in the courtroom, the witnesses shuffled uncomfortably. Kroker had been dragging the case out for what felt like an eternity. He did not seem to want to reach a breaking point for the jury, who were all sitting in their places with dark, irritable expressions.
From the defendant's table, the woman on trial sat comfortably enough, a soft smile on her glistening green lips. She sat with confidence, knowing that she was in her Mother's hands. From the opposing table, Jack Fredericks, lawyer extraordinaire, stood to his feet and exclaimed, "What more is there to discuss!? You have a mountain of evidence, Kroker! Enough is enough!"
Everyone looked at him anxiously. The defendant considered him with a glance. Considered her prey. Kroker looked up, his face flustered, and jabbed a finger in the lawyer's direction, "Sit down and shut up. I'll dictate when enough has been enough." He cast a glance in her direction….and smiled softly. She returned a wink in his favor, puckering her lips and blowing him a kiss.
"Alright…alright, here…yeah…" Kroker shook his head several times, as if trying to get rid of sinuses. As if there were pollen in the air… "Very well, here we are… Pamela Isley, the accused, has been brought here today to face charges of mass murder in the name of experimental mutagen engineering. Accomplice, Professor Jason Woodrue, P.H.D. awardee in Biology and Chemistry, currently missing. Miss Isley…will you take the stand?"
"My pleasure," Pamela Isley replied softly, standing up and taking to the witness stand, escorted by her lawyer, who walked with a dazed expression upon his face. He, too, was shaking his head again and again. The damn pollen… and in winter, no less… Many men in the room could not stray their gaze from Isley's alluring figure. Her black business skirt was less than bagged modesty, a status of meat-based greatness. Her lawyer helped her, hand in hand, into the seating, and Isley stroked his cheek lovingly.
"Miss Isley," Kroker strained to say, his voice jittering. He could not draw his gaze away from her now. Her vibrant, blood red hair. Her glistening forest green lips. She was everything to dream for, everything to have desire for. The perfect woman. "Please tell the court, and this is for record…" Was that annoyance on the old man's face? "…how was your family life? Tell us about growing up."
"Objection," her opponents cried out. "Miss Isley's past has no correlation to-"
"Overruled," Kroker cut across him firmly. He did not take his gaze off of Pamela Isley, who was looking more savagely triumphant as second after second went by. "Now, Miss Isley, forgive him for the interruption… I want to hear you speak."
"And you shall," she replied in an almost suggestive purr. "My childhood…do you want me to tell you that it was fucked up? That mommy and daddy didn't love me? That I'm a victim…?"
"Yes…" Kroker said absentmindedly, sweating profusely. "I want to hear you speak…"
The crowd had begun to murmur. Isley, noticing them and frowning, cleared her throat very loudly and pointedly. The crowd turned their attention on her…
"Sure, I'll tell you all about it," she said. "I'll tell you everything you ever wanted to hear. I'll let you hear my words: the words of Mother Nature. Please note them well, and write outlines… there will be a test at the end of this." She cleared her throat again, becoming confident and graceful in her stance as she crossed her arms upon her lap in a most lady-like manner. "My name is Pamela Isley… although the papers claim otherwise. What is it they've called me, in this morning's Gotham Gazette?"
"They've…they've called you P-Poison Ivy," Kroker coughed out, shivering all of a sudden, as if the name itself were tainted. "That's the name you left carved into the- I mean…." He looked around the room nervously. The room was frozen and silent.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Isley answered defiantly. "Poison Ivy… an unworthy name for someone of my personal caliber. I am no vigilante."
"Please continue with your home life, Miss Isley."
"This is not the place!" Frederick's cried. "We're here to convict Isley based on overwhelming evidence of a-"
"Overruled," Kroker announced again. Fredericks looked as if he were about to burst. Isley winked at the flustered lawyer.
"My childhood… my childhood was quite a fine one. Dandy as you could ever imagine. It was filled with laughter and excitement. Family outings every Sunday morning after church… dinners at Palamini's every Friday night… the chicken alfredo was to die for. Dad's fireworks business and the lightshows we used to have on the lake when we delved into inventory… Mom's
weekly baked blueberry cobblers, always cooling off on the windowsill…
On the windowsill…
That was where the little kitten had found its way. It must have crawled up the little ramp around the back wall of the garage from the next door neighbor's hedge-walled yard. The ramp connected to the windowsill and led up to a small bird-feeder. Mama had set it up so that the birds could "have their own space, on their own time."
"Come here, little kitty," the towering teenage girl said softly, snatching the black feline into her grasp and dragging her into the dim garage. It clawed at her arms and cut her, but only so slightly, and the pain was of lesser quality to her recognition. The red-haired teenager, ragged looking in her ugly brown skirt and ruffled, dark green blouse gritted her teeth as she held the kitten before her, lightly stroking its little black head, ignoring the blood seeping down from the claw marks on her arms. The kitten meowed loudly and irritably.
"Meooowwww indeed!" Pamela sang, stroking its head more firmly. "What's your name?" the fourteen year old asked the vulnerable little creature. "Hm? You have a name? I do. I have a name. I'll tell you mine, and then you tell me yours, and that's the way it works, okay? Ready? My name is Pamela Lillian Isley. Pam for short. I don't really like Pamela by itself, not without Isley thrown in: Pamela is the name of a librarian or a nurse. Pamela Isley, however, is the name of a scientist. Botanist, really…" She considered the feline, which was still meowing in contempt and trying to break free of her hold. Of course, if it did, it would fall right on down onto the hard concrete floor, and break its fucking little neck. "I say, what's your name, cat? Kitten? What's your name!?" She shook it, a little. "Do you have a name besides "meow?" She shook it again, more violently, and the cat really struggled against her hold now. The blood was seeping down more vigorously now, as the kitten carved up Pamela's skin even more. But the wide-eyed redhead was not having any of its meaning. "I say, what's your name? Can't you talk?"
She stopped shaking it, and considered its own wide eyes, filled with terror. "No…no I suppose you can't…can you? You're just a dumb…animal. A dumb thing. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Dummy! Little dummy! Little idiot! Dummy! That's what your name is, it's Dummy, isn't it? And do you know what happens to little-" She prodded its nose lightly with her fingertip. "-fucking-" She pinched its nose firmly, making its squeal and hiss in pain. "-dummies?"
And she forcibly threw the cat down, with as much strength as she could muster. The feline hit the floor hard, bouncing away and rolling against her father's tool-table. Pamela leapt forward and stamped down upon its head with a bare foot, crushing its skull. She stamped down, again and again, to make sure it was dead. Blood and brains made for a small puddle. Its eyes went missing.
As she destroyed the creature, she breathed raggedly, overwhelmed by the sudden elation of triumph over the dummy….over the mammal…
When she was sure it was nice and dead, the teenager walked casually over to the windowsill where the little dummy had crawled in, and tenderly stroked the Anthuriums growing in the violent pot there…
"Hey there," she whispered lovingly to these orange children. "Mommy got wid of the nasty kitty," she cooed. "Nasty, nasty kitty…"
"Pamela showed severe signs of mental illness at a very early age," Dr. Stefan Mamiste confirmed to Commissioner James Gordon, sitting across from the latter's paper-swarmed desk with a steaming cup of Gotham Joe's Moca-Delight. A profile lay between the two of them, dotted with several photographs of Pamela Isley at different stages in her life. Green eyes piercingly stared from within the photos, as if she were a third of many presences in the room with the two men. "They first cropped up when she ten. Her mother found her torturing grasshoppers in her bedroom at some point; had them soaking in Clorox, she did. At the time, they didn't bring her in because they thought that this was a normal behavior for ten year olds."
"They were kind of right, weren't they?" Gordon noted. "People do insane things at that age. Hell, I remember burning ants like a little psychopath…"
"At age eleven, her parents became very concerned with her collectivity. They found a whole jar of dead bugs in her closet. All killed, it seemed. Some squashed, others poisoned to death in Clorox. Some of them had little pins impaled through their heads. In addition, vines and different strands of ivy were stowed away in almost secretive locations: the family had a house beside a small wooded area on the outskirts of town, and there was quite a variety of wildlife and vegetation there."
"Age eleven would raise concerns. Did they bring her in, then?"
"Her father brought her in, yeah, and that was the first time we met. She was a very shy, very introverted girl, but let me tell you, she had a mind on her. Kid could tell you things about plants you don't learn until high school and college. She was obsessed with them. With flowers and different types of ivy. At the time, of course, none of this really brought up concerns. It was the thing with the bugs that we wanted to talk about."
"And?"
"And she said that she liked killing bugs because the bugs ate grass and other plants, and that the plants did not deserve to be killed in that way, so she killed the bugs in order to protect the plants."
"She liked killing the bugs? Those were her words?"
"Yeah… it took us a while to talk to her, too. Every time I brought up the fact that the insects were a vital part of nature, she would get loud with me. Fussy little thing. Called me a few names that had no business coming out of the mouth of an eleven year old. One session, and her parents never brought her back to me, at least, not for a long while. I don't know if it was because at the time, they thought me incompetent for upsetting her like that or because they genuinely were considering more extreme forms of help than mere therapeutic observation. But I didn't see her for three years after that first meeting. Not until she was brought in with the news that she had brutally stomped a kitten to death in their garage. And…the other thing…" The doctor shuffled uncomfortably.
"Other thing?" Gordon's eyes narrowed. "Stomped a cat…and what else?"
"Well, her folks walked in on her…doing things to herself….with the cat's remains cradled close to her. Have you ever heard of phytophilia, Commissioner?"
"Eco-sexuals, yeah," Gordon nodded uncomfortably, feeling bile build up in his throat at the thought.
"She was using an Easter lily. Had the flower in one hand, had the dead cat forced under the other. Pants pulled down to her ankles. I believe that was the breaking point for them both. They forced her to return back to my observations, adamant on continuous rehabilitation. But by this point, she was completely different person from the eleven year old that I had met three years prior. She was colder, a lot more introverted and when she did speak, it was a very mature form of observation on myself. She mocked the way I dressed and the questions I asked, poking holes in my logic any way she could. She spoke very intelligently. Quite a god-complex she had…"
"You held your ground?"
"I had to. She was the first like that I had ever encountered. I had to keep on her. So I did what I could. Clinically, she displayed various antisocial behaviors. Conduct disorder was a basic frontal charge, but noted were symptoms of oppositional defiant disorder."
"The animal killings were a conduit, you see, to much darker parts of Pamela Isley. We spent a good year with our intense sessions, trying to unlock the seeds of these self-harmful ways."
"And were you successful?" Gordon asked.
"Even without these recent tragedies caused by her, I knew on the day she was officially cleared that I had not been. She eventually adapted to playing along with what she called my "game," telling me things I wanted to hear and putting on a good face of rejuvenation for Mr. and Mrs. Isley. They were fooled. I was not, but they took her off the sessions anyway…"
"And…?"
Stefan sighed. "And…"
"And not a single person cares," Pamela spat at the crying, nine-year old boy, who lay upon the grass, sobbing into the green. Fifteen year old Pamela Isley towered over him menacingly, using the top of his head as a footrest as she forced his face into the grass firmly, causing dirt to enter his mouth. His head lay inches from a fire ant nest. Pamela's face was stricken with fiery rage, her hands trembling uncontrollably. "Do you hear me!? No one cares at all about you. If I were to put your head on that ant pile right now, no one could come running to help you, you little shit, not even as your screams were drowned by the hundreds of ants that would crawl down your fucking throat and eat you from inside!"
"Lemme go!" the little boy cried, banging his fists against the grass. "Let me go!"
"Why should I!?" Pamela screamed, her eyes bulging madly. "WHY!? WHY SHOULD I, YOU LITTLE FUCK!? Did you let those petunias go when you pulled them out of Mother Earth and gave their corpses as a present to that ugly little shit you call a girlfriend!? FATTY MCARLEN, that's her stupid name! SAY IT! CALL HER FATTY MCARLEN!"
"P-p-p-p-p-p-please!" the boy sobbed hysterically, her skin blood red. The ants from the nearby pile were stirring up, investigating the area outside of their hole. "PLEASE!"
"Fatty McArlen doesn't want the corpses of those innocent flowers!" Pamela screamed. "NO, SHE DOESN'T! AND SHE WON'T WANT YOU BY THE TIME I'VE FINISHED FUCKING UP YOUR FACE! YOU DESERVE TO DIE! YOU DESERVE TO SCREAM!"
"STOP IT!" Someone from behind her was suddenly screaming. "PAMELA, STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"
Pamela looked around irritably, and saw her fat, ugly mother running up the drive towards her. Behind her, the little boy's own mother, Yosalda, was running, her face stricken with horror at seeing what Pamela was doing to her son. Pamela retracted her foot and sped off, running from the forest nearby, as the little boy's mother dropped hysterically to her knees next to her child. Isabelle Isley, meanwhile, continued after her daughter, but Pamela moved fast, and soon was engulfed in the dark trees… her paradise.
"My God," Gordon spat, disgusted and pale-faced. "She ran off just like that?"
"It was mid-afternoon when that incident happened," Stefan nodded. "Pamela stayed in those woods for most of the day, before the police who were sent in to find her brought her out in the early evening, completely nude and covered in ivy. According to police and official records, she had woven the ivy around herself, spitting at anyone who would listen that "Nature had its place, and everything else was for the sake of worshiping it…" That was the final straw as far as Isley's home-stay was concerned. Mr. and Mrs. Isley disowned her, unable to cope with their daughter's mental instability. She was placed into a special hospital: Coreman's Ridge for Young Adults. Nice institution, treated the young folk who went through there well. Juvenile Detention Centers became invalid for her: she was too unstable. Her parents never came to see her. The family of that little boy sued them something good and the legal matters drove Edward Isley to suicide a year later. One shot to the head."
"Yes, I remember that in the papers. And the mother soon after, right? Overdose."
"Which officially and permanently put Pamela in the state of New York's custody. When that happened, it was a half on half debate as to just what exactly would happen to her from that point on. I took it upon myself to follow her, you see. Coreman's Ridge had been offering me a position for a year at that point. I had a friend in the higher administrative departments. I finally succumbed to their offer when I learned that Pamela had been transferred there: I had worked with her and seen what she was, what she could do mentally, and I felt an obligation to continue her treatments personally."
"Which they allowed?"
Stefan nodded.
"Why does it have to be you?" Pamela demanded, bundling herself into a sheet-based cocoon upon her queen size. Dr. Stefan sat across from the bed in a dark green recliner (her fucking dark green recliner, the disgusting little man!) and tapped away onto his silver laptop, pushing his glasses up his nose every few seconds. The man was nervous and was sweating a little. "I don't want you! I don't want it to be you! I don't need your help, Stefan. You never did me any good. I'm a danger to society, see?" She threw her arms around the room, grinning like the Cheshire cat. "They locked me up, safe and sound. Nature's enemies are safe from Her bounty hunter."
"Pamela, let's talk about what's happened recently," Stefan cut through firmly. "You've been in this institution for a year now. Your mother and father are both gone. Your name has been utterly tarnished and right now, your entire future is hinging on improvement, Pamela. Do you want to walk out of this place when you turn eighteen? Do you want the chance to live a life filled with your dreams, Pamela?"
"My dreams have already come true, doctor," she hissed back, her expression dark and knowing. She fell onto her back, still wrapped in her cocoon, and gazed lovingly at the ceiling. "I have already been set free."
Stefan typed something quickly, and nodded. "Go on."
"Their deaths marked the start of it," she whispered. "It was Natural that mother and father… no… Isabelle and Edward put themselves to death. They defied Nature for too long. They broke its Laws, and placed Her bounty hunter inside of a prison of white walls." She shuffled to look over at him. "I'm glad they're dead."
Stefan exhaled deeply, finished typing his notes, and then set the laptop to record. He then set the device down upon the floor and studied her more intently.
"Why be glad that your mother and father are dead? They raised you, kept you clothed and fed and allowed you to continue your education, Pamela. They never stopped loving you. Merely lost to their human limits, as we all do."
"Not me. I have no human limits. You have to be human first."
Stefan shook his head. "You are human, Pamela. And accepting that fact, as well as the laws and obligations that come with that status, will be the first step to recovery."
"Why don't you go fuck yourself?" she yawned pleasantly, turning away from him. "You've had enough practice doing so to me and all your other patients. Give yourself the same justice."
"Would you have killed them, Pamela?" Stefan asked quietly. "Would you have killed your parents if they hadn't killed themselves?"
"How could I possibly kill my own parents?" Pamela snapped irritably. "I'm locked up in here. The gate outside and locked and watched by two guard towers. I wouldn't have been able to get close enough to kill them."
"What if you had never been put in here? What about then? What if you stood over them as they slept, with a butcher's knife in hand? Stab them both to death? Slit their throats?"
"If I wanted to kill anyone," she said quietly, "no one would ever know I had ever been there. Trust me…"
"These were the words of the late Dr. Stefan Mamiste, according to official records found within the man's home-based archives," Fredericks announced to the assembled court, after the recording stopped playing. "At this point, Pamela Isley was in no position to rejoin society. This evidence suggests premeditation for the spree of violent and seditious activities performed in the name of Pamela's supposed monotheism, her worship for the environment. Her mental stability was far from rational, far from safe for the ranks of the common good."
"I had such a cute voice at that age," Pamela called out, looking excited. "Hot little triker I was, let me tell you."
Kroker and many more people in the audience began to laugh at that. Many laughed with dazed expressions…with glossed over eyes… and raging sinuses. The pollen, man…the pollen…
"This evidence suggests that Pamela Isley would have murdered-"
"Overruled," Kroker snorted, still not able to draw his gaze away from Pamela Isley.
"You cannot-" Fredericks objected, but Kroker shouted again, "Overruled! Overruled! Overruled! Please, Pamela, continue-"
"You can't just-"
"ENOUGH!" Kroker roared, standing to his feet now. "Enough, enough, enough! Recess! Half an hour! Court will convene at two p.m."
"That's not how this works, Your Honor!" someone from the crowd shouted.
"What the hell is up with this judge!?"
"Leave him alone! He's doing his job well!"
"Set her free! SET HER FREE RIGHT NOW!"
The crowd was getting crazier. Nothing made sense anymore. Disorder, chaos revealed, unlike any other. And all the while, as the audience frenzied and the judge verbally returned fire, Pamela Isley sat calmly, in confidence, and kept her charming smile lit in favor of Frederick's, surveying him intently with deep calculation. Frederick's, blood red in the face now, kicked his table furiously and swore.
"Too bad for you," she whispered to herself. She turned to Kroker. "Dear… do you want to see me free?" She reached up and touched his face tenderly. The judge crumpled hard, grasping at her arm, breathing wildly.
"Yes!" he hissed, throughout the wild commotion of the assembled crowd.
"Then set me free."
"Yes…yes…yes I will, yes…" He looked wildly around the room. "Bailiff!" The heavy-set, balding man standing near one of the exit doors looked around and saw Kroker motioning for him. "Come, come…" The bailiff, confused and frowning, slowly began to make his way towards the judge. Fredericks, meanwhile, had his back turned and was screaming at the crowd to see sense.
"Bring him to me," Pamela commanded Kroker, stroking her black gloves together upon her lap.
"Yes…" the dazed judge obeyed. When the bailiff arrived, Kroker nodded at Pamela. "See to her."
"Sir?"
"We're going to get her out of here," Kroker said slowly. The bailiff nodded, and stepped toward Pamela. As he did, she reached out with one of her gloved hands and casually brushed it down his face. The bailiff stumbled in his advance, coming to a halt, his eyes suddenly glossing over, his expression becoming dumb and disoriented.
"Whaaa…?" he breathed, struggling to stay upright.
"Bailiff," Pamela whispered, motioning with a finger. "Please, come here. I want you to take me by the hand and escort me out. Now."
"Whaa..I…yes…" His piercing gaze upon her facial features became evident, as he moved forward, zombie-like, and helped her out of the booth. He took her and, hand in hand, began to lead her from the room, leaving her lawyer looking dumbfounded and nevertheless entranced as he and Kroker began to follow closely behind. By now, Fredericks was noticing what was happening, and he was turned to face them.
"Hey! You can't just take her out of the room! We're still in session!"
Pamela stopped walking, and the bailiff, Kroker and her lawyer followed suit. Her head was bent low, her eyes closed. All around the room, chaos was in effect. One half of the room was shouting for her release. The other…no…no it was less than half for the other…they demanded the trial continue.
Pamela Isley turned back to face Fredericks, her expression cold, but her smile evident.
"Are you sure you want me to stay, Fredericks?" she asked, unbuttoning the top button of her blouse. "Are you wanting me, is that it?"
"Is that it, then?" Pamela asked Nurse Killinger, standing on the threshold of Coreman's Bridge with three suitcases surrounding her. She was dressed in a light green blouse, pattern designed with stitched vines, and a flowery, silky black skirt. Her ballet flats were jade in color, her hair pulled into a finely groomed ponytail, all courtesy of Killinger's efforts for what the elderly woman considered a most joyous day. "Are you wanting me gone, then?"
"Oh, Pammy," the old crone sighed, placing a tender, wrinkled hand upon the eighteen year old's shoulder. "You're going to do just fine. Just fine. The board knew what they were doing. Should have let you out a year ago, I think, put you with a nice, rich family… but you're going to be just fine. You've done so well in the last two years. I'm so proud of you, baby girl. And when you step through those iron gates today, Pammy, I want you to remember what you accomplished."
"Gotham University…" Pamela smiled as she said it. "Yes… I suppose I should personally write thank you cards to all of you for this."
"That would be nice, child. Let the board know that you appreciate just how much money they poured into giving you a fresh start. Gotham University's a pretty difficult school to get into, let me tell you. But you're probably the smartest girl I've ever known to come through here, I want you to know that. You're a genius, Pammy. You could do anything you want…or anyone, right, sugar?" The old lady chuckled heartedly and gave Pamela a small nudge on the side. Pamela's mouth twitched. Was it a smile trying and failing miserably to form? "You're a real beaut, alright. I never see girls with a shade of red hair quite like what you got going for you now, Pammy. You're gonna knock all them boys dead."
"Imagine that," Pamela commented casually.
"You will, sugar, you just wait and see. Brains like yours and looks to match… you'll go far. And you've really improved, baby girl. Really improved. In two days, you're gonna be starting one of the finest schools in the world. And you won't have to worry about that nasty lawsuit from the Mendez's, either. Chairman Jacquez has a lot of confidence in you, paying off that family the way he did. You know, maybe you should give them a visit, hun. Show them just how much you've improved."
"Yeah…yeah maybe I'll do just that…"
"Don't let anyone take advantage of you, though, baby girl. And don't let them bullies take bites. You aint done nothing wrong, okay. The past ended one second ago. As far as I and the rest of the world should be concerned, your past aint never happened. What kind of classes you got lined up for your first semester?"
"Basic required gen-eds. Humanities, Physical Science, Art Appreciation and American History from 1865… all useless… except for Physical Science…"
"Of course, baby girl, that's your special skill, aint it? You've wrapped my brain for a whistle and tistle, let me tell you hun, with all of your brain power. Aint never seen a girl as talented as you in this place, let me tell you, sugar. You gone go and get you a college degree and cure cancer. I want you to remember, baby girl, that the people who were considered the worst ended up being the ones on top. You don't let anyone ever tell you that you're a bad girl, do you got that? You don't let anyone ever tell you that you deserve to fail. You go and kick all of their asses, and kick them hard, okay, Pammy?"
Pamela really did smile now, because she knew that Killinger was right. She was going to come out on top. She was going to overwhelm her inferiors, one by one. Gotham University would be the grounds for which she would become idolized for her superior brain power. The lesser mortals would all be shunned and forgotten when GU saw her intellectual capabilities. She thus turned around and threw her arms around the African American elder who had been the closest thing to "mother" in this dreaded place. Killinger understood her passions and encouraged them. Human though she was…. and therefore inferior as she was, she understood. Killinger chuckled and patted her on the back tenderly.
"You're gonna be fine, sugar," she whispered into Pamela's ear. "You're gonna be fine, Pammy."
"Yvonne Killinger was found poisoned to death in her bedroom, wasn't she?" Gordon muttered to himself, shuffling through the papers on his desk. "Traces of…something, I can't remember-"
"Castor oil," the darkness of the corner of the room growled lowly. "Ricin traces."
"Yes, that's it," Gordon noted, not looking around. Dr. Stefan, however, jumped out of his skin, looking around the dark room frantically, peering intently at the black corner where the voice had come from. Gordon looked up at him apologetically, his beard twitching into a smile.
"Sorry, Dr. Mamiste. He does that. I've been asking him to use the front door, but he isn't one for taking my orders."
The darkness built up a solid form as the creature stepped into the light.
"My God…" Stefan gasped, jumping to his feet. "It's…it's you."
"Stefan, Batman. Batman, Dr. Stefan Mamiste."
Cloaked in black, cowled in dark, pointy eared helmetry, Stefan felt coldness wash over him at the sight of the Batman. Never had the man dreamed that he would actually meet Gotham's most celebrated lawbreaker.
"It's an honor," Stefan breathed, actually reaching out a hand. The Dark Knight, nodding, accepted the handshake and then moved around the room.
"I've been wanting to meet you for a while now, Dr. Stefan," he growled lowly, his head bent as he half-circled the man in his impressive armor. "You saw to Pamela Isley throughout her teen years. You acted as her personal psychiatrist."
"You were listening well enough," Stefan said, nodding. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough. I need to know something specific from you: Did she ever have a particular run-away spot? Somewhere she went in Gotham when she wanted to be alone, maybe?"
"No," Stefan replied firmly, shaking his head. "No, no, we never let them just wander off into the city alone. Not unless they escaped, and she never did. At least, not that we were ever aware of. There are periods of time when we shut off cameras and let them have some isolation, but we monitored all patients continuously. State orders. Ed Coch would never allow it. All of her schooling was done at the hospital. Coreman's Ridge hires special tutors to come in and administrate educational programs for the patients."
"She never was allowed to leave the institution?" Batman pressed.
"Well, n- yes, she was, occasionally. I mean, it was a place of healing. We couldn't just keep them cooped up all day. No, she was allowed to go into the city a few times a week, but never alone. She had a nurse attached to her constantly. Nurse Killinger formed a strong relationship with Pamela Isley over the girl's two years at the Ridge. She sympathized with Pamela and treated her like one of her own. Of course, she had experience: Killinger had seven kids at home, all fosters. She was the woman who always took in the unwanted ones. Heart of an angel. And Pamela reacted well to her. I'd say that in a world where Pamela did not want friends, Yvonne was probably the only one."
"So the two of them would go into Gotham every week?"
"Yeah. Yeah, they'd go out for ice cream, or to see a movie at the Monarch… Yvonne was always buying her new clothes and she almost always came back with at least two or three new books on botany… And we see improvement in her. We saw change. That change was our goal, and through her interactions with Yvonne, it seemed to be going in the direction that it needed to go. Yvonne reported outbursts at times, but nothing we weren't used to."
"Are you sure they didn't go other places?" Batman suggested, leaning against the left wall now and bowing his head as if in prayer. He was fiddling around with something small in his hands that seemed to be emitting a faint green light.
"What kinds of places would they have gone to, exactly?" Gordon wondered aloud.
"Secret places. Places that Yvonne may have kept secret, if in Isley's trust."
"No. No, Yvonne always told us everything that done during those outings."
"And you never suspected her of lying at any point?" Batman asked. Stefan looked flustered.
"N-no, of course not. Why would she? Yvonne knew what Pamela was. He knew what she was capable of and she was always on high alert. Why would she lie about anything?"
"I need to find out for sure," Batman replied, finishing with his tapping. The faint green light went out, and the Dark Knight stepped forward. "I need to know about the possibility of special places for Pamela Isley. We've got to track her down."
"Yvonne Killinger is dead," Stefan said, exasperated. "She was murdered. Murdered by Pamela Isley, we know this. She can't talk anymore."
"The dead have more ways of talking than just using their mouths," said Batman, coming up to the window of Gordon's office. Gordon nodded.
"He'll find out, trust me. He's good at finding the invisible."
"I'll be in touch, Dr. Mamiste. Keep your phone on." And just like that, the Dark Knight leapt into the darkness of the night through the open windows, wings expanding as the air took him as its own. Stefan sat, dumbfounded and unsure as to what there was to say. Gordon, meanwhile, saw that his coffee had drained, and went to fetch some more from the pot, swiping Stefan's mug with him.
"Batman's going to be calling you soon," he told Stefan. "He's always quick on the job. Trust me. He'll know what to do."
"And what could he find out from Yvonne Killinger if she's dead?"
Gordon chuckled. "My friend, the dead know better than to keep secrets from Batman. Trust me."