Details 2
I am lost in thought. Something is not right. My mind should be on other things, but I keep going back to the warehouse. The whole scenario was wrong. Gathering intelligence on the shipment was too easy. All the information we correlated in preparation was too readily available. The number of personnel was unnecessary. Luciano Fognini would not risk the success of the operation by placing such an inexperienced person in charge. That person, one Antonio Palazzo, has no priors for matters pertaining to narcotics. It is the wrong fit. The personnel in the warehouse, though properly armed, were not trained and competency levels were unbalanced. Merely reasoning through my doubts leads me to conclude that the shipment I and Gordon disrupted was not intended to succeed. This furthers the possibility Fognini is deliberately leaking information in order to target both myself and Gordon. It is also not inconceivable that Fognini now has knowledge of the response time and manpower of Gordon's unit. He may also have access to GCPD personnel files and be scrutinizing susceptible individuals, looking for weaknesses. My heavy involvement in Gordon's case against Fognini means I am also being watched.
My skills and procedures for dealing with hostile situations will be relayed by at least one of the three men released on bail this morning. Solutions to my battle tactics will no doubt be talked about. I envision sterner resistance, not when, but if I discover another shipment. I am almost resigned to the idea the drugs recovered by Gordon will be nothing more than baby laxative cut with talcum powder or some other combination. Fognini has the real merchandise ready for shipment somewhere in the city. He is waiting for us to make the next move. All this analogy is immaterial at this very moment in time. I am not at home. I have been sat in a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises for close to three hours.
Regardless of my wandering mind, I am not wholly ignorant of what has transpired in this room. Lucius Fox, a man whom I trust with all things corporate, has fought strongly against the merger Santoro Incorporated propositioned us with. While most of the board members are in favour of amalgamating, citing the net capital gain, it is yet to be a unanimous decision. Only Lucius, as vice-chairman, and myself, as chairman and majority shareholder, can approve such a drastic course of action. Although these facts are readily apparent to all present, we all want to be on the same page as it were. My contribution to proceedings has been limited. My injuries notwithstanding, I am still overly fatigued by recent exertions. I am therefore fortunate Lucius is so adept at his role. I must say something though.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," I begin, rising from my seat at the head of the table, "Let me be frank." I pause to look round the room; I have everyone's attention. Excellent.
"Wayne Enterprises is not merely a corporate superpower or a Gotham City landmark. It is my father's legacy. He was not a man to trust lightly and so was particular about whom he allowed to handle day-to-day running of the company. Long before my rise to corporate figurehead, my father selected Mr. Fox to personally handle business matters. He did this, not only because of Mr. Fox's impeccable conduct and sharp business acumen, but also because of something less associated with today's executives; his heart. Mr. Fox is a man who understands what is best, not only for growth and profitability of a business, but also for the people behind it. If he believes that this merger is not in the best interests of this company then I support him and you should too."
The speech is hastily prepared and hearing it makes me wonder how I would fair as a salesman; badly, I think. The board seems unimpressed. I remain standing, already analyzing how to salvage the situation. Then someone claps. I look to make sure it is not Lucius. It is Conrad Harper, head of Mergers and Acquisitions, and the last man I would expect to approve. He is nodding, as if in agreement. When the remainders follow his example, I want to sigh in relief. I am exhausted. I need sleep or I will collapse. I nod my head in gratitude and then sink back down in my chair. Lucius concludes the meeting and I am free to retire to bed. As I get up to leave, Lucius claps me on the back.
"Well done, King Solomon." He says with a grin. I can barely incline my head now. My surge of adrenaline and garbled inspiration coincided at the same time, robbing me of the little energy I had in reserve. I manage to call Alfred. He says he will arrive shortly. I drift…
I remember Alfred waking me in my office. I remember staggering to the car. I remember negotiating the stairs. I remember waking up.
It is night. I shed my custom-tailored suit and fling on my dressing gown. I have yet to see Dick today. The boy is unlikely to be anywhere near his bed despite Alfred's advice. As expected, I find him in the cave. I am pleased to find he is not alone. Alfred is supervising him closely. Neither notices my presence. I must be feeling better. I stand and observe from the shadows for a time.
"Do not strain yourself Master Richard. I am certain Master Bruce will not appreciate waking to find you less convalesced than before. More than that, he will not be pleased with me."
Alfred's wit is not on display. His voice is one of great concern. I see the boy attempting to hold a handstand and share his concern. To hold his body upright, Dick must tighten his abdominals and steady his legs; the nature of his injury makes this almost impossible without further aggravation. I am thankful to note Alfred's position means he is supporting the boy and this is not Dick's try at rehabilitation. I guess the old man is making efforts to keep him happy. Dick is always most contented when performing gymnastics, even when detrimental. The boy emits something between a sigh and a groan. He signals for Alfred to help him down. When he stands up, Dick holds his left side and grits his teeth.
"Sucks." I hear the boy mutter under his breath, "Injury sucks." He is more irritated than in actual pain. I see from his expression that Alfred shares my view; the old man is smiling. From my vantage point I smile too. Dick is tough and stubborn, excellent qualities for our line of work. "How does he do it, Alfred? The guy got shot twice. I don't think I could get up the next day and just go to work if I got shot." Dick suddenly says. His tone suggests exasperation rather than awe. He is frustrated by his limitations and I am interested what advice Alfred will offer him. I wait.
"If I may point out, Sir, he was not shot twice, merely grazed and, in regard to his ability to shrug off such bodily shocks, the practice is not to be admired. Master Bruce is an exception to the widely held belief that intense physical strain and severe mental taxation sustained over prolonged periods of time causes high-blood pressure, nervous breakdowns, heart-attacks, diabetes and all manner of other unpleasant conditions. I am certain were he not Bruce Wayne, he would have been dead a long time ago."
I find Alfred's opinion on my behavior somewhat unwelcome. I can admit I tread a fine line in regards to my health. I stand on the cusp of my body's ultimate fitness level, but am also one mere miscalculation away from destroying it with overexertion. But I do not consider myself reckless. I watch for Dick's reaction. The boy offers the old man a look of uncertainty.
"You're saying Bruce is a freak of nature? Alfie, if that's the case, and the guy is incapable of being hurt, how can I keep up with him?"
"I did not say he is incapable of being hurt but rather he does not accept pain as an excuse to cease normal activities. As for keeping pace with him, Master Bruce does not expect you to. He does not wish to make you in his image. What he wants, more than anything, is to give you a childhood that he never allowed himself. His 'crusade' is not yours and, after recent events, he understands that, irrespective of your training and enthusiasm, you are still just a child."
I am not surprised by Alfred's accurate analysis of my intentions. He is a man of unrivalled perception and is especially adept at interpreting my body language. After thirty years, it is not unexpected. Dick looks totally confused. Alfred smiles.
"I understand your bewilderment. It is often the way that Master Bruce says one thing when he means another. Just know that presently, he understands you are trying your best and for him, that is more than enough."
Alfred senses my presence. He does not where I am, but he knows I am here. It is subtle, but his words are also directed at me as well as Dick. The old man is making a point. Yes, my parenting skills are lacking. My distance from the boy is not helping our relationship. But I am…unclear how to rectify the problem without encouraging him to return to the impulses that almost got us killed in the first place. Spontaneity, a normal trait of Robin's fighting style, is absent from recent patrols and the boy is unwilling to act without my approval. I know this is a direct result of what transpired with Two-Face only months earlier, but I believe Dick has misunderstood my intentions. I do not want a robot for a partner…
I want him.
"I'm gonna stay down here for a while, Alfie. See if Bruce turns up." Dick says. I stiffen. The tone of his voice is casual enough, but the way he is slyly glancing in my direction is unnerving. When he looks again, this time right at where I am currently standing, I know. Alfred frowns at the boy. "I know you're worried about the stairs, but I promise if I need help I'll call you." Dick reassures him. The old man seems to accept this, nodding before parting with warning of an early bedtime. The boy watches him ascend the stairs. Once Alfred's footsteps are faint enough, he looks at me again.
"I'm not mad, Bruce. I know what you're like. Any reason you're down here? Did you make a breakthrough on the Fognini case?" Although my silent observation is an unwarranted invasion of privacy, Dick genuinely does not mind. He is far more forgiving than most people. I step out of the shadows.
"I have theorized on certain facts. What gave me away?"
"Alfred. And the fact that the room turns cold whenever you're in it." I have seen The Sixth Sense. We watched it last week and, for some reason, Dick found it hilarious. I think I can see why. He is smiling and clearly amused by his own wit. I smile too.
"How was your day?" I find myself asking. He shrugs.
"Okay. I caught up on my French homework and helped Alfred with some of the housework…" The boy pauses before wrinkling his nose. "I wasn't too good with the housework. Definitely not my forte. How was your day?"
"Good. Thank you."
I am not much of a talker unless pressed. Dick is the opposite. The boy is still pushing for me to share more details. His expression is urging me to add something to my reply. Alfred has suggested this is one of the reasons I am not particularly close to him, my lack of communication. I will endeavor to try harder.
"I had a board meeting. It went well. They went in my favour." It is not especially vivid or interesting, but I have made an attempt to elaborate. Dick seems impressed.
"Cool. So, you heard what Alfred was saying right? Is any of that true?"
"Dick…"
"Right, right, sorry to put you on the spot like that. It's just…sometimes I feel like…" It is clear from the beginning of his sentence that the boy cannot finish it. I am sure he knows what he feels. Speaking is not a problem for Dick. Articulation is where he lacks polish and sometimes trips over himself. He looks at me in frustration and I sense he wishes to move away from that avenue of conversation. We are both uncomfortable. I oblige.
"Would you like to hear what I've come up with in the Fognini case?"
The boy's dour disposition immediately brightens. "Absotively, big guy."
My explanation of the inconsistencies we encountered last night does not sit well with Dick. The boy is especially concerned with the intelligence collected on the operation. He was responsible for correlating the acquired information and is angry he did not scrutinize it. When he revisits events, Dick felt getting the initial address was too easy when we were driving to it. He chastises himself for not voicing his concerns. I tell him I should have identified the operation as false when I saw the people Palazzo had surrounded himself with at the first safe house. The five men we disabled were not from a narcotic background with three of them being nothing more than petty thugs. I had apprehended two of them at least twice in the past year for assault. Dick does not believe in sharing blame.
"I should have been looking at the details. There were way too many. A beat cop could've put this case together with the amount of info we got." The boy is saying as he leans on the back of my chair. I feel his breath on the back of my head.
"I doubt it. Although the intelligence was suspiciously complete, correlating the data is not a straight-forward task. This operation was meant strictly for us and Gordon. Fognini wanted to see how we would perform." Dick lets out a deflated sigh that ruffles my hair.
"Looks like he got what he wanted. Any ideas where he's hiding the real deal?"
"Although it makes more sense to store it in a location outside of the city, I believe Fognini has it located somewhere in The Narrows. His front as a legitimate property developer means he owns several buildings in that area. Of course, he has properties all over Gotham and the East Coast, but…"
"But due to the proximity of the docks and abundant criminal population in The Narrows, he's far more likely to stockpile his stuff in that area. Sounds simple enough; we swing by there in a couple of days and just hit each Fognini-owned place one-by-one until we get what we're looking for."
"There are at least fourteen legitimately-owned properties to investigate. It is unclear whether he illegally owns more, but we have to assume the worst. We have no intelligence whatsoever to state that Fognini intends to sit on his shipment in the next twenty-four hours, let alone two days. He could transport them out of the city tonight. Without any information on credible associates to shake down or leads to follow, we're totally in the dark. Suggestions, partner?"
My pessimism is thick tonight. For a moment, I fear Dick has inadvertently adopted the same outlook; he is eerily quiet. "We've gotta have a lead or a clue, boss. A guy like Fognini isn't perfect. Let's reason it out. If you were a crime boss specializing in the narcotics racket, what would you need to make sure of? The product of course, but also the guys under you. You'd need to make sure they could be trusted. You'd need to make sure they were careful, experienced, professional in all departments. They'd have to be smart and not just street-smart. You'd want the best to make sure you were the best. Who's the best guy to have as your right-hand man for an operation like this?" Dick has me thinking hard on the matter. The boy is entirely correct. Fognini can and only will afford the best man for this operation. The shipment will definitely be sizeable. Fognini does not deal small. I muse in silence for long minutes. Dick is waiting for me to make a connection.
There was a man. Someone the likes of Jervis Tetch, The Mad Hatter, and Jonathan Crane, The Scarecrow, would go to for certain compounds. He was elusive. I am certain I have viewed his record and found it to be both extensive and solely built upon narcotic charges. His name however, the most important, critical piece of information at this juncture, escapes me. I am certain he would be perfect for such a job role, the best man to ensure success. I picture him in my head: Average height, stocky build, Caucasian, balding, blue eyes…
The image could still be any number of possibilities. I turn to relay this to Dick. Before I can open my mouth, something clicks into place. Looking at the boy, a young, black-haired adolescent, sparks a memory of a heinous crime from before his arrival. A boy was found in The Narrows, suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms associated with prolonged cocaine usage. Upon being brought into Gotham General Hospital, it was discovered he was Dexter Martin, a thirteen-year-old who'd gone missing some six months earlier. Examination revealed in addition to needle marks, Dexter had also been the victim of sexual assault on multiple occasions. Initial investigations into his disappearance suggested he was a simple runaway and would return when he got scared. With new evidence, Gordon and I theorized he was most likely abducted in the street, forced into cocaine addiction and then prostitution to fund his habit. When he suffered a collapse, those abductors threw him back out into the street. The very idea someone could do that to a child and take pleasure in it was beyond sickening. Dexter died two days after being found.
My investigation into the case yielded similarities with other cases from Gotham's past. In 1996, Jacob Elsberry, fourteen-years-old, went missing on the way to school. He was found in the river five months later. Forensics revealed he had only just recently died from a combination of high amounts of cocaine ingestion and internal trauma caused by multiple rapes. He was black-haired, blue-eyed and a budding sports star; the same characteristics described in Dexter. I uncovered four other instances where a young adolescent male with black hair, blue eyes and good sporting ability was subjected to cocaine addiction, severe sexual assault and then dumped when dying. The pattern was overlooked by corrupt members of GCPD, obviously paid-off by whoever was responsible for taking those young boys lives. Gordon revealed he had tried to get his superiors to investigate a known child molester with a history of narcotic and sex offences, but they would not listen. I told him to give the name to me. I would settle this…
Derrick Combs. The man's name was Derrick Combs. His rap sheet was unsettling. Innumerable charges relating to drug trafficking, drug possession with intent to sell, aggravated sexual assault on a minor and attempted abduction of a minor were dropped due to lack of evidence. Drug samples recovered at the scene mysteriously disappeared from the evidence locker, victims refused to testify and the man himself claimed ignorance. I confronted him. It was not pleasant. He suffered four broken ribs, a fractured sternum, jaw and dislocated shoulder. I managed to stop short of actual irreparable damage such as death. The confession he gave me, the one I made sure to record, was dismissed in court as being coerced under duress without valid provocation and unnecessary brutality. In it, he admitted everything. Since the day that day in court, Derrick Combs has been a ghost.
"Derrick Combs." I say. Dick claps me on the back.
"Alright, boss-man! Let's pull up his record and get an address."
I look at him smiling with youthful exuberance and wonder if Dexter had done the same. The thought unsettles me and I am reluctant to further corrupt his innocence. What I say next is in the gravest tone possible.
"I don't think you should see this, Dick. It involves things I'd…rather you not have knowledge of."
The boy's smile gives way to a frown. His hand is still on my back.
"Bruce, we're partners. I can't go into this blind. Bad things happen when you leap before you look."
I know to what he is referring. Judge Watkins was an error in judgement on his part. He did not understand the game Two-Face was playing. He acted before he thought the situation through. He is unwilling to make any move without knowing all the angles. The boy is correct; he needs to know and I need to tell him. So I do. I recount the whole investigation I was working with Gordon. I spare few details. Once I cross to his record and read out the charges, I see Dick understands my concern. To his credit, the boy is not overcome by the callousness of the murders. He remains alert and accepts each detail in-kind. I find his professionalism admirable.
"So, this guy does all these bad things, crosses you, escapes conviction and skips town. Why do you think he'd come back at all? He could do this kind of work anywhere in the world with his credentials; why risk coming back here and a possible reunion with you?" I have a theory, a very dark, twisted theory. I would prefer to feign ignorance, but Dick knows me too well. He knows I always have a theory and, unfortunately, they are usually accurate. He is waiting for my reply. For the first time since Judge Watkins, I hesitate in answering. The boy sees this immediately.
"He may have his eye on you." I say, slightly unbelieving I have just articulated such an ugly thought to a child. Dick is momentarily rendered mute by my assessment. Then his penchant for putting puzzle pieces together, his well-learned detective instincts, kicks in. He has taken his emotions out of the conversation. All he now cares about is logical, practical reasoning. His voice is steady as he stitches our fragments together into a plausible framework.
"Luciano Fognini is in trouble. His last shipment has not been well-received. His buyers demand higher quality for their money or business operations will cease. We know that's true because of Gordon's interception of half his shipping product in April. So the guy needs to ensure his next shipment is delivered without any problems. He knows between Gordon's new-look GCPD department and our less conventional methods he will have trouble finding a gap in our net. He needs someone to handle this operation, someone with vast experience in shipping drugs and a good track record for getting away with it should he get caught. He somehow locates Derrick Combs. He wants him to front his operation, be his right-hand man. Maybe Derrick isn't too crazy about going back into Gotham because of the bat problem. Fognini, though, knows the guy's weakness is teenage boys. He makes him an offer: ensure the delivery of the shipment to his buyers and he'll provide Combs with what he wants. Combs says he's done with that game. Fognini is desperate at this point because Combs is the best guy available right that second and he's on a strict deadline; he can't hang around to look for someone else. It HAS to be Combs. He knows the guy's type and suggests me. He sets us up with that false lead to get us in action and observes me. He knows I'm carrying an injury from Palazzo's hook and aims to exploit it. Combs gets the drugs through and then gets me as payment for services rendered…" When Dick pauses, I know what he is going to say next and I agree. "That's so flimsy a premise a slight breeze could knock it down. We need proof the guy's in the city and that he'd working for Fognini."
We spend three hours trawling through databases, looking for something concrete of Derrick Combs. We are certain Combs would be using a false name since his is flagged under the Sex Offender's Register and would be tied to Fognini through some form of paperwork. We look into Fognini's property business and its employee records. There are many names to cross-examine. Many are legitimate property developers and experts to ensure the credibility of the front, but some are not. The homepage of the website has been recently updated and we home in on the newest information available. There is a new Senior Development Manager, a Mark Allen, added under a contacts list. Although there is no accompanying picture, a cell phone number is listed. I draw Dick's attention to this. He agrees it is something to look into further.
We now concentrate all our efforts on finding out about Mr. Allen. He has just moved to the city from Phoenix, Arizona where he was a notable property manager and consultant with a successful real estate firm. He has no family but resides in a catchment area near to Dick's middle school. We both find this odd. Hacking into the DMV gifts us his driving license details. It is an Arizona license with all relevant information. His height, weight, age and eye colour all correspond to Derrick Combs, but the photograph does not put this matter to bed. The gentleman in the license photograph has a radically different facial bone structure and profile to Combs with glasses and a possible wig further hindering a positive identification.
Dick offers plastic or reconstructive surgery as an explanation. Of course it is reasonable Combs had his features altered to avoid detection, but we have no evidence…yet. We trace Mark Allen back to Arizona, before his arrival at the property firm. There is an employment record stretching back to only 2004; the year Derrick Combs fled Gotham. Before 2004, the man did not seem to exist. When I say only 2004, I mean those are the only years we can substantiate; everything from prior to 2004 is a fabrication. Dick is becoming excited. He believes we have found proof. I too am exhilarated by the prospect. I am also wary. I need to make absolutely sure of this man's identity; he could be someone else entirely.
"We need to set-up a meeting." I say having carefully weighed-up the options. Dick nods in agreement.
"I'm pretty sure Wayne Enterprises would be very interested in a joint venture with Fognini's company. How many spare buildings do you have to sell?" The boy asks, smiling at me. We both know Wayne Enterprises' real-estate portfolio is beyond extensive. Not including the main tower, the company owns almost a third of the city. I am well-positioned to seize advantage of the opportunity afforded to me. I call Mr. Allen. As soon as he answers, I recognize his voice. As soon as I drop my name, Mr. Allen is excited and more than willing to meet me. We schedule for tomorrow, in Wayne Enterprises' board room. I tell him he may bring as many associates as he deems fit. He asserts his authority as Senior Development Manager and says he will come alone. I am satisfied as we part ways. Tomorrow I will know. Tomorrow I will know for sure.