THE TERROR THAT CAME TO GOTHAM
Act II – "The Show Must Go On"
"Someone in this room," said Lt. Bullock, "is a murderer."
Gordon quickly shot Bullock one of his looks. The two detectives had been called out to Wayne Manor, where there had indeed been a homicide. Ethan Bennett, The Terror's screenwriter, had been found murdered in the same style as Roland Daggett – face removed and left to bleed to death. There was no doubt they were dealing with a serial killer now.
"This isn't the time for jokes, Lieutenant," said Preston Payne. The film's director was sat on the couch in the study, visibly devastated by the death. "He was… He was my best friend… And now… he's gone…"
Gordon stepped forward to ease the tension. "I apologise for Lt. Bullock's… inappropriate humour." Another look confirmed that Bullock would get a talking to later. "And I promise you, we'll get to the bottom of this."
The Commissioner surveyed the other occupants of the room. Young Julie Madison was quietly crying in the corner – she was the one who had discovered the body and it had upset her greatly. Matt Hagen was comforting her, but didn't seem too affected himself. Sondra Fuller stood by the window looking disturbed. She was older than Madison by at least a decade, and more practiced at containing her grief. Basil Karlo sat by the fireplace and gazed deeply into the flickering embers. Bruce Wayne's butler, ever the gentleman, stood attentively by the door, but Wayne himself was notable by his absence – apparently called away on business.
Despite Bullock's jovial tone, Gordon knew it was possible that one of these people had killed Bennett. For once, it seemed that the police were ahead of Batman. It was difficult to tell, but the Dark Knight had seemed surprised when Bullock reported the murder, and Gordon hadn't seen any sign of him at the crime scene. He was not worried however; he knew the Batman would show himself when he wanted to.
"I got here as quick as I could…" said someone behind him. It was Wayne, just now arriving back at the mansion, so it would seem. "Alfred, what's going on? What are all these police doing here?"
"Um, Master Wayne…" started the butler.
"'Fraid there's been a murder in your home, Mr. Wayne," Bullock bluntly interrupted.
"Murder?" Wayne repeated in surprise. "Surely there's been some mistake, officer…?"
"Lieutenant Harvey Bullock. This is Commissioner Gordon…"
Gordon politely stepped forward. Unlike Bullock, he believed in treading softly. "We've already met…" said the Commissioner. Wayne seemed confused at this. "Last year? You had a car accident…?"
"Oh yeah," Wayne nodded though it was clear he had no idea what Gordon was talking about. Gordon didn't see a reason to mention their first meeting years ago, after Wayne's parents' deaths. Wayne was unlikely to recall it.
"But what's going on here, Commissioner?" asked the billionaire.
"First, Wayne," said Bullock, "can you tell us where you've been for the past hour 'n' a half?"
"I, uh, had to meet with Lucius Fox, my CEO. At Wayne Enterprises…" said Wayne. "Mr. Fox can verify this…"
"I'm sure he can," said Bullock, noting down this information. "Little late for a business meeting, ain't it?"
"It was an emergency meeting," said Wayne. His tone was factual, not defensive. "Some problem with a prototype or something, I don't remember… Can someone please tell me what's going on?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," said Gordon. "We just have to be thorough."
"Ethan's dead!" Preston blurted out in exasperation. "Some… Some sick bastard killed him…" He looked away, too emotional to go on.
"It was horrible," sobbed Julie. "They… They cut off his face."
"My God…" gasped Wayne in total horror. This was clearly far more serious that what he was used to dealing with on a daily basis.
"Just like Daggett…" Fuller added ominously from the window.
"It appears you have a sinister motive on your hands, detectives," said Karlo without looking up from the fire.
"Alright, alright!" said Bullock, waving his hands for silence. "Let's just all calm down here. Now, as far as I can tell from your statements, these are the facts:
"After the murder of Roland Daggett by someone copying this Clayface character, Mr. Wayne here graciously steps in to fill the cash void. So you all come over to his big home to talk about filming and all that jazz.
"Mr. Wayne gets called away and some time after that Mr. Payne went upstairs to check on Bennett, who had stormed out due to a disagreement. That right so far, Mr. Payne?"
The comment about the 'disagreement' had stung Preston somewhat, but he nodded.
Bullock continued. "You and he had an argument over something about writing credit?"
Preston nodded heavily. "I… I always got a co-writing credit on my movies… Wanted to be a Hollywood Renaissance man… But Ethan did all the writing himself, on all the films we did together, and I promised him a… leg-up into the directing business in exchange for sharing the acclaim for the scripts.
"He… He just wanted the proper credit he was due… And I was too arrogant…" Preston couldn't continue.
No-one commented, and Bullock returned to his recital. "This row is confirmed by Miss Fuller, who heard it from the upstairs hall as she went to the bathroom. Only she claims to have heard it suddenly go quiet and then some sounds of a struggle…"
"It didn't sound violent," said Fuller. "Just like… scuffling."
"But," said Bullock, "here we have Mr. Hagen, who says he saw Payne roughly around this time, that right?"
Hagen shrugged. "I was outside having a smoke and I saw Preston…"
"I was angry," said Preston. "After the argument… Just needed some fresh air…"
"Also corroborated by Mr. Karlo," said Bullock. "Out for a walk, were you, sir?"
Karlo nodded slowly. "I'm afraid I have been made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Lieutenant." Karlo tapped his right leg with his cane. "Too much age and vice has left me with a poor limp, but I must frequently exercise my leg, lest it worsen. I took a stroll, soon after Mr. Hagen had returned from his respite, and saw young Preston still walking off his folly."
"Which then brings us to Miss Madison," said Bullock, fully in his element. He turned on his heel to face the youthful celebrity. "You said that you went to check on Bennett and Payne, only to discover the former's body lying on the floor."
Julie started sobbing again and Hagen wrapped his arms around her with very little tact.
Bullock pushed his hat brim back and put his hands on his wide hips; proud of his oratory skills. "It seems," said Bullock, "that the only person who can account for his whereabouts the entire time is you, Mr. Pennyworth." He looked over at Alfred by the door. "You were here in the study the entire time. And here I was gonna say 'the butler did it' and go home early."
Alfred merely raised an eyebrow at the Lieutenant's crude wit.
"Alfred?" said Preston weakly. "Could I have a glass of water please? I have to take my medication. For my hyperpituitarism. Nothing serious…"
"Certainly, sir," said Alfred. As he poured Preston his drink, Gordon took Bullock out into the hall.
"What do you think?" he asked Bullock.
Bullock shrugged. "They're all guilty. Just not of murder."
"You don't think it was one of them?" Gordon asked.
"It's a big house, Commish," said Bullock. "Somebody could get in and out without being seen easy. But that don't mean it ain't one of the Z-listers in there. I mean, they're celebrities; of course they're hiding something. But is one of them hiding murder…? I dunno. Yet."
Gordon sighed and did some quick mental organising. "Alright. You take this and I'll continue with the Crane case."
Bullock briefly thought about contesting the Commissioner's decision – he had already been working himself too hard trying to bring in Crane – but then decided it would be futile.
"We'll get back to Central for now; let forensics finish up here," said Gordon. "Let me know if anything turns up."
They both walked back into the large study. "Thank you for your cooperation, ladies and gentlemen," said Gordon, using his best 'there's-nothing-to-see-here' voice. "We have all we need and will keep you apprised of future developments in this investigation."
"Guess this kinda puts a damper on your flick, huh?" said Bullock.
Preston suddenly looked up. "Oh no, Lieutenant. We'll finish the movie. The Terror was as much Ethan's dream project as it was mine. Whoever this… monster is that killed him, he clearly wants to deter our progress and we can't let that happen… For Ethan… The Terror will be made and not only will Ethan get the credit he deserves, but it'll be dedicated to his memory."
Preston looked at the actors with determination. "We need to make this film, now more than ever. I'm… just sorry it took Ethan's death to make it happen…"
The morning after Bennett's murder had found Preston in a more upbeat mood. He had arrived at Wayne Manor early with the film crews and was now getting ready for a scene in the gardens, mere hours after the police forensics team had departed with the remains of his best friend.
Bruce watched from the patio as the young movie mogul issued orders and dealt out encouragement. He was trying to create a sense of teamwork and camaraderie in Bennett's name. Bruce could not tell if it was how Preston was dealing with his grief or something more sinister.
A cry of "Whoops!" interrupted his observations as someone bumped into him from behind. It was a member of the crew by the looks of him: late 20s yet dressed like a teenager in a Terminator 2 T-shirt and baggy jeans, his hair lank and unwashed. He had been carrying a box of props that he had dropped. "Sorry, man."
"Don't worry about it," said Bruce. He bent down to help pick up the random objects. "You, uh, work on the set?"
"Yeah," said the man proudly. "I'm kinda the gofer just now, but I really wanna get into special effects and make-up design, y'know?"
Bruce nodded along. "Listen, uh…"
"Burt," the man offered. "Burt Weston."
"Burt. You know much about movies?"
"Hell yeah, man!" said Burt. "I'm a total film freak!"
Bruce squinted at the awkwardness of the question. "You think you could tell me a little bit about this film?"
Burt looked at him in surprise. "You mean you don't even know what The Terror's about?"
Bruce shrugged and put on the dumb playboy routine. "I was just caught up in the whole Hollywood thing, but now with these murders… Maybe I should get clued in, y'know?"
"Well there's, like, these scientists: Sean Perlman, Portia Storm and George Keaton," said Burt. "And they're investigating this mysterious protoplasm in some cave. But, see, all the while Perlman's secretly in love with Portia; they've known each other for years. Then they meet this guy, Keaton, who's also studying the plasma. Portia starts to fall for him, which makes Perlman all jealous like. Plus, Keaton's much smarter than Perlman, who has all these crazy ideas about the protoplasm being from another planet and stuff.
"So, one night, when trying to prove his theories and impress Portia, Perlman takes a tumble into the protoplasm. When he comes out, he's got awesome shape-shifting powers, but he's slowly dying 'cause of it. It all gets too much for him and he starts killing off the other scientists, and he's trying to get to Keaton, but when he sees that Portia is afraid of what he's become, he kills her in anger. Then Keaton kills Perlman. Tragic ending; really unconventional for the time."
"I see," said Bruce, taking in Burt's hurried synopsis.
"Oh, and in the remake, they've added another main character," said Burt. "A reporter called Summer Gleason, who's also studying the plasma. She's the only one who shows Perlman any compassion after he becomes Clayface, but he still goes crazy. Mr. Payne says they added her because it gave another side to the story, but rumour has it she was only included to give Miss Fuller a role."
"After Julie Madison took the Portia Storm role?" asked Bruce.
"Yup," nodded Burt. "It's a really awesome story though. I'm totally psyched to be working on it!" Someone called his name from the set. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Wayne. Better get back to work."
As Weston left him, Bruce couldn't help thinking about how faithfully their serial killer would mimic the movie's Clayface. Were the actors in danger of fulfilling their roles too closely?
"What the hell are you doing walking through the middle of my scene!?" Hagen screamed at a lighting technician. "Do it again and you're off the set, so help me!"
Alfred watched this from a short distance. Hagen's outburst, though excessive, was understandable. The atmosphere had been grim in light of the murders, yet Preston was still attempting to energize everyone into a positive mood. It was only a matter of time before these opposing attitudes collided and caused flared tempers. Alfred imagined that, ordinarily, Mr. Hagen would have stormed to his trailer, but his substitute in this case – an overpriced hotel room – was outside of storming distance, so he simply calmed down and continued with the scene.
"What fools these mortals be, eh, Alfred?" said Basil, hobbling up to him.
"Indeed, Mr. Karlo," said Alfred. "Would you like me to find you a seat, sir?"
"Oh no," Basil dismissed the offer with a wave. "I'm taking my morning exercise. And I've told you to call me Basil."
"Apologies, Mist– Basil. My rigid tuition as a gentleman's gentleman once again, I'm afraid."
Basil smiled and nodded. He gestured back at the set. "Matthew's anger is misplaced. Mr. Daggett's death was terrible, but none of us, save Preston, really knew him. However poor Ethan was friend to all of us. Matthew is simply dealing with the loss in his own way. Having said that, I wouldn't mind having some of that youthful passion back again."
"And I," chuckled Alfred. "But that is our lot, I suppose. I am sometimes harsh with Master Wayne in regards to his… reckless behaviour, but I do envy his spirit."
Basil laughed knowingly. "We do like living vicariously, don't we?"
"I think in Master Wayne's case, I'm quite happy where I am," said Alfred light-heartedly.
"It is good to have young friends again," said Basil. "Before, I merely pottered around my lonely home, but now I am out and about once again; I have even given up drinking and smoking in hopes of improving my health." He indicated his leg.
"Glad to hear it, Basil," said Alfred.
"No! No! No!" yelled Hagen, once again throwing a tantrum. "I don't want to take a walk! Shoot it again!"
"Perhaps Mr. Hagen could be doing with some of your positive outlook," said Alfred.
Gotham City nightlife was a world unto its own. Those who did not slither from shadow to dishonest shadow circulated in brightly lit night clubs for all manner of purposes, running the entire range of legality.
Shelley Squires was part of the latter crowd. She had come to one of Gotham's more popular spots, "The Nightmare Room", with a group of friends. With several top movie stars visiting Gotham, they had been hoping to catch a glimpse of Julie Madison or Matt Hagen. Having had no such luck, her friends eventually turned to some of the club's young men, but Shelley was not in the mood.
Unseen by her companions, Shelley wandered outside into the grey rain. Although she had not drank as much as her cohorts, she was quite tipsy and in the mood for a cigarette.
She staggered down an alleyway for shelter. Generally not a good idea in Gotham City, but the combination of alcohol and desperation had driven some of her sense away.
"Cigarette?" a kind voice offered from the darkness. He sounded familiar and Shelley thought it was one of the men from the club. In the gloom and the rain he was hard to make out though. But he did offer her what she wanted.
She hadn't smoked in months, but she took the treat from the stranger with a smile. "Thanks. You followed me out, huh?"
"I couldn't resist," said the man in the shadows. A flame flickered as he ignited a lighter and proffered it to her.
Shelley lit the cigarette and took a much needed breath from it. The stranger's face was vaguely illuminated by the flame.
"You look familiar," she told him.
"I saw you in the club," he explained. "From across the dance floor. You didn't seem to be enjoying yourself as much as your friends."
"Yeah," said Shelley. "But… Have I seen you somewhere before tonight?" She took another draw from the cigarette and made a note to ask what brand they were – they were much more intoxicating than her usual label.
"Oh yes, Shelley," said the stranger. "We go way back…"
"How did you…?" She was starting to feel drowsy. But why? She hadn't drunk that much, had she? Then she removed the cigarette from her mouth, letting out one last puff of acrid smoke.
She stared at the little white stick in realisation. Her thoughts began swimming; the world was thrashing wildly before her; everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time; she just wanted to lie down.
"Yes," said the stranger in cruel victory. He stepped forward out of the shadows and he had become a Scarecrow; bony and ragged, like a rotting corpse.
The Scarecrow lowered her gently to the ground; she was too tired to protest and her limbs didn't seem to be obeying her anyway. She just wanted to sleep, but everything was pounding at her head. What was it her mother had told her about strange men?
"We must not look at goblin men, we must not taste their fruits," sang the Scarecrow, its voice like nails on the chalkboard of her mind. "Who knows upon what soil they fed their hungry thirsty roots…"
"Barbara, please just listen to me. I know things are tough, but…" The Commissioner paused to let his wife scream down the phone at him. "I know, sweetheart, I know. It's just… This case is very important…" Gordon knew those were the wrong words even as he spoke them.
"They all are, Jim!" said Barbara, before slamming down the phone.
Gordon hung his head as he put down the reciever and sighed. "You can come in now, Bullock."
The Lieutenant poked his round face through the door. "Sorry, Commish. Couldn't help overhearing and thought I'd better wait 'til you was done…"
"Come in," Gordon waved for Bullock to be seated. "What have you got for me, Lieutenant?"
"You, uh, having some troubles at home, sir?"
"What have you got?" Gordon repeated with a sternly professional tone.
Bullock nodded and tabled his concern for now. "The Daggett murder. Turns out there was a robbery the same night. With everything goin' on, guess they just didn't notice 'til now."
"What was stolen?" asked Gordon.
"Some chemicals and stuff," Bullock shook his head. "I dunno what their properly called; it's in the report. But that's what I think you'll find interesting." Bullock passed his file to Gordon.
Gordon flicked through the report, which contained various chemical symbols. He looked to Bullock for a summary.
"There were traces of those chemicals found in Professor Brahms' blood," said Bullock.
Gordon leaned forward. "Are you saying Crane killed Roland Daggett? And then stole from him?"
"No," said Batman, who stepped out the dark. "It doesn't fit."
"You gotta get better lighting in here, Commish," Bullock quipped.
"Crane didn't kill Daggett?" asked Gordon.
"Crane's modified his toxin in some way," said Batman, "and to do that, he needed certain chemical compounds that pharmaceutical corporations often store. On their own, the chemicals aren't lethal, so they aren't usually well guarded. With Daggett Industries recently in the media spotlight, they were the prime focus for Crane's attention.
"It's an alarming coincidence," finished Batman, "but nothing more."
"You just love making our job harder, don't ya?" said Bullock.
"That ties in with what one of Crane's former associates told us this afternoon," said Gordon. He held up another file for Batman to read.
Batman didn't take the file. "I know," he said.
"Well I don't!" protested Bullock. "Some of us have lives, y'know."
"Jefferson Skeevers, a mid-level dealer, was pulled in today," explained Gordon. "Apparently he was involved with Crane's drug ring last year; offered to give us some information in exchange for leniency.
"With Crane's recent escape, Skeevers thought we might like to know where he kept his toxin. He gave us the address of a storage unit in Burnley known for its 'no questions asked' policy. It was empty, of course, but Crane's prints were all over it."
"Great," said Bullock. "So now we know he's got his entire supply of the stuff and he's making it even worse."
"He took another victim tonight," said Batman. "You need to get your men out looking for her before it's too late."
Both Gordon and Bullock reacted with surprise. "What?" said Gordon. "How do you know?"
"Shelley Squires, 33, was reported missing while out with her friends, near Polic Avenue," said Batman.
"I hate to sound unfeeling," said Bullock, "but: So? What's she got to do with Crane?"
"She attended Gotham University the same time as he did," Batman explained. "They shared classes."
"How do–?" Bullock started to ask. "Ah, forget it."
"So it's personal this time," said Gordon. "First Brahms, now Squires. He must have something against her." The Commissioner was already dialling numbers.
"We can only hope that's the extent of his goals," said Batman. "Personal vendettas increase the chances of him making a mistake and getting caught."
"We can also hope we catch the bastard before he kills that poor girl," added Bullock.
Shelley slowly awoke and instinctively tried to reach for her aching head, only to find her arms tied down. She was lying on some kind of couch, surrounded by a grey mist. The Scarecrow sat watching her, its fingers steepled and its gaze chilling.
"Who are you?" Shelley managed to ask, her voice weak and trembling.
"I've always been watching you, Shelley," said the Scarecrow. Its voice crept through the mist like a spider walking over glass. "In the club, at home, in college…
"Advanced Chemistry, class of oh-one? You were so beautiful, but you could never look twice at me. Not with all the nasty rumours and hearsay about me. Why flaunt popular opinion, right? Why go against the flow?
"You've always been afraid of independent thought, haven't you, Shelley? What if your friends don't like you for who you are? Then you'd be all alone… Better to nod along with whatever everyone else thinks…"
Shelley had been listening to all this with an ever increasing feeling of dread. "How… do you know all this?" she asked.
"I know you, Shelley," said the Scarecrow. "I know what drives you; what torments you… Fear. Fear of being alone. It's a common phobia, but yours was so great that it destroyed any sense of individuality you had. And now you're surrounded by so many bright, shiny, colourful friends and yet inside you're so empty…"
"Who…are…you?" Shelley asked again, with tears forming in her eyes.
The Scarecrow rose from its seat and stood looming over Shelley. "You'd never remember me by my real name, Shelley," it said. "Now I am merely Scarecrow." It bent over so its face was inches from Shelley's. She could see now that although it had human eyes, there was no soul behind them.
"I'll show you your fears, Shelley," said the Scarecrow. "I'll show you how the void is much bigger within than without. And then, when you are at the limit of your terror, when your heart can withstand no more torment from your mind, I'll watch you die at the hands of your own failings."
Shelley's eyes started to glaze over as the hallucinogen in the air seeped into her lungs. The Scarecrow ran his gloved hand over her face; the coarse material lightly scratching her gentle features.
"Your screams," said the Scarecrow, "will be exquisite…"
"Crane got another one last night, Alfred," Bruce solemnly reported. Although it was midday, Bruce was only just eating his breakfast, which he had chosen to partake in the kitchen, so as to stay out of the way of the film crew and actors.
"Tragic news, sir," said Alfred. "But you cannot blame yourself. Your focus is split; with these Clayface murders."
Despite this emotional support, Bruce's expression did not show any alleviation of guilt. "Gordon's men searched the area where Squires disappeared. They found a cigarette laced with sedative in an alleyway. Her body was found in the same alley this morning. 'Scared to death'… He preyed on her like an animal…"
"Oh, hello," interrupted Fuller as she strolled into the kitchen. "I just came to get something to eat; I hope you don't mind…"
"Not at all," said Bruce, putting on a smile. "Help yourself." Bruce had already been supplying The Terror's staff with food and drink, since they hadn't been able to afford caterers.
"I shall be outside, sir," said Alfred, "replenishing the drinks table." He departed with a tray of water and fruit juices.
Bruce returned to the newspaper, flicking to the business section to maintain his image. Fuller helped herself to some cheese slices and sat down across the short, oak table from him.
"That, uh, all you're having?" Bruce asked casually.
Fuller raised an eyebrow. "Have to watch my figure, you know. Not that anyone's going to be paying attention to me, with Little Miss Hungover in second billing."
"You mean Julie?" asked Bruce.
"I shouldn't be saying anything, of course," said Fuller. "I know how you society types stick together."
"I've barely spoken to her," said Bruce. He switched into an investigative mindset, but kept his tone informal. "What's the story with you two anyway?"
Fuller smirked bitterly. "For someone who's in the glossy magazines so often, you don't seem to have your finger on the pulse, Bruce."
He shrugged. "I'm a busy man. Besides, I'm usually moving a little too fast to read, y'know?"
Fuller sighed and shrugged. "I got a call from Preston a couple of months back," she explained, "offering me some big part in an indie film he was working on. I was finishing up some piece-of-shit rom-com, but agreed to meet with him about it.
"Of course, by the time I met Preston, Julie had joined the cast, and so had her money. The 'big part' I was promised had magically turned into this reporter character who has about three scenes."
"So why did you take it?" asked Bruce.
"In this business, Brucie, you take what you can get. Even after you're nominated by the Academy." Her voice turned into a secret whisper. "Plus, and I don't mean to sound cold, but with these murders The Terror has become the most talked about film of the decade. You can't buy that kind of publicity."
"Publicity…?" Bruce repeated to himself. It was an angle he had not considered. "You're not afraid you might be next?" he asked Fuller.
She shrugged. "I dunno… It just seems so… unreal. Like being in a movie, I suppose…" With that, Fuller rose abruptly from the table. "I'd, uh… better get back outside. Thanks for the cheese." She exited.
Bruce took a breath, then said "How long you been standing there?" to an apparently empty room.
"Long enough," said Julie, stepping into the kitchen from the side door. She had the smile of a child caught looking for Christmas presents.
Bruce offered a smile. "Don't pay too much attention to Sondra; she's just… worked up. We all are. It's not easy with these deaths hanging over everything."
Julie took the seat vacated by Fuller. "I know. But she's kinda right. I mean, Sondra's done real movies – like, period dramas and stuff – and this is just my first one."
Bruce struggled not to roll his eyes as he gave some pitiful words of encouragement. "Doesn't necessarily mean she's better than you."
"She's been nominated for an Oscar and I've been on a 'Top Ten Best Nip-Slips' list," said Julie, giving Bruce a blunt look.
Bruce shrugged with a boyish grin. "Were you at least number one?"
Julie laughed. "Number three actually."
"Well, it's not all bad," said Bruce. Since it was obvious he wasn't going to get peace to himself any time soon, he decided to nonchalantly question Julie to see what he could learn.
"What made you wanna take up acting?" he asked her.
Julie seemed taken aback by the query. "Oh, uh… When my dad died he left me all his money from his hotels and I guess I went a little… crazy for a while…"
"Crazy?"
"Yeah. Surely you must have seen one of the nine-zillion magazine covers I was on, looking absolutely wrecked during a night out?"
Bruce smiled politely and shook his head.
"Huh," said Julie. "Well, loosing my dad kinda hit me real hard and I just had a… unique way of coping. It was reckless and dumb, but grief has a strange effect on people…" Julie sighed this off. "Anyway, after a while I decided to do something important with my life, and since I'd been pretending for the cameras anyway, I figured; why not do it for a living?"
Bruce looked down solemnly at the table. The familiarity of Julie's story had momentarily broken through his façade. "I know something of how losing a loved one can give your life focus…" he said.
Julie's eyes widened in embarrassment. "Oh, s-sorry, I forgot…"
"It's okay," said Bruce, looking into her eyes with equivalence. "I guess I'm still a little 'crazy' from it all…"
Julie cocked her head. "I dunno… I think you've already found your purpose."
"What do you mean?" Bruce asked warily.
Julie gave him a coquettish look. "Something about your eyes… You're hiding something, Bruce Wayne, but I'll figure it out," she teased. "I'll get to the bottom of your secret…"
"I know your secret!" said Fuller. "I know you're the killer! The monster everyone's looking for!"
"What!?" yelled Preston as he turned to face her. "How do you know that!?"
"Please," scoffed Fuller. "I'm too talented not to figure it out. But I can help you. I know you're not really a monster…"
"Oh," Preston glowered, "but I am!" He leapt forward and grasped his hands around Fuller's neck and watched her body go limp as the life was choked from her.
"Cut!" shouted Preston. "How'd that look? Good?" A bell sounded and the lights in the ballroom were brought up, revealing the film crew. Preston helped Fuller off the floor. "You were great, Sondra, but maybe a little more thrashing around in your death scene, 'kay?"
"I thought that might look a little cheesy…?" Fuller was saying, but Preston had already darted over to the assistant director to watch the recorded footage.
"Basil!" Preston was shouting across the room. "Somebody find Basil, I want him to see this."
Alfred was once again watching proceedings from the back of the room. He noticed Matt Hagen sitting in his chair looking quite sullen.
"He's like a child, isn't he, Mr. Hagen?" Alfred asked, trying to stir up conversation.
"Who? Preston?" said Hagen. "If you mean stupid and loud, then yeah."
"I was, uh, referring to his enthusiasm and elation, sir," said Alfred.
Hagen sneered. "Sure…"
"You do not share Mr. Payne's excitement?" Alfred asked.
"It's a great part," said Hagen, suddenly showing his acting talent. "Really emotional and physical. Good script, deep character…"
"Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Hagen," said Alfred, "but you sound like you've been rehearsing that line."
Hagen smirked. "A part's a part, Alfie, but–"
"Alfred."
"–I don't really get all this cult stuff that's got everybody so riled up. There's this huge fan base around some dumb horror flick… I prefer doing action movies; a lot less talky, y'know? Personally, I don't see why we're even continuing with this serial killer on the loose. Seems a little weird."
"Matt?" Preston was calling him. "We need a few shots of you now."
Hagen wearily rose from his chair, but sauntered out the door. "Whatever," he said. "I'm going for a smoke. Back in five."
Preston nodded resignedly. "Okay… Uh, everybody take five minutes. Good idea. Yeah."
"I suppose I'll always think of it as My Father's House," said Bruce. "Even after rebuilding it." He and Julie had taken to strolling the grounds outside. There was something he found… intriguing about her.
"I know what that's like," said Julie. Her previously flamboyant attitude was gone and there seemed an honesty to her now. "My dad had five places in the States alone. All mine now, but… not really mine."
Bruce tried desperately to hold on to his detective mindset. He was conducting an investigation, nothing more. But the more he talked to Julie, the easier he found it to let go and lose himself in the sense of freedom and sincerity she created. So much of what she said mirrored Bruce's own thoughts. His own… soul?
"You feel like you're just the caretaker," Bruce found himself saying. "For a memory…"
Julie smiled and looked into his eyes. Hers were blue and seemed so piercing yet so understanding. She was sharing much with him that had never been told, but still it felt that there was more to her. "Exactly," she said. "Bruce, why do I get the feeling that even though you've told me so much, there's still so much more beneath the surface?"
Bruce smiled and, to his surprise, it wasn't forced. "I was just thinking the same about you…"
They stared at one another a moment and Bruce started to wonder if it were even possible for him to share his life with someone without Batman coming into it. He had had flirtations with many women in order to maintain his cover image, but with Julie he felt that he would want something so much more. Something genuine. Something honest. Something real.
"What's the first movie you ever saw?" Julie asked casually.
"What?" Bruce was thrown off by the change in tone.
Julie shrugged. "You talk like you haven't seen a movie since black-and-white. Everybody remembers what the first movie they ever saw was. What was yours?"
For the first time in too long, Bruce found himself immersed in a genuinely happy memory. "When I was… six or seven… my mom and dad took me to see The Mark of Zorro at some old theatre. That's my earliest memory of seeing a movie, anyway… We rarely got a chance to all go out together, what with my father's work… But when we did, it didn't matter where we went…"
"Was that the one with Antonio Banderas?" asked Julie.
Bruce laughed at her youthful ignorance.
"Your laugh…" said Julie. "It's like you don't use it much. Not the real one anyway."
"Julie…" said Bruce and he tentatively put his hands on her arms. "I want you to know… how difficult it is for me… to talk about my parents, or anything than means so much to me."
She slowly slid towards him, into his arms. "I know, Bruce, because it's the same for me. I know what it's like to have everyone look at you as if you have everything you want, but in truth…"
"…You've never had what you really want," finished Bruce. They were now lost in one another's gaze. There was no more talking. Their lips were drawn closer…
Then Bruce sensed it. Sensed, rather than saw or heard, the falling object directly above them. His training had prepared him for such attacks and he instantly reacted accordingly.
He leapt forward onto the ground with Julie in his arms as a chunk of masonry landed heavily in the area they had been occupying.
"What the hell was that!?" asked Julie, looking over his shoulder.
"The roof!" shouted Bruce. He was on his feet in a blur and looked up to see a figure spying on them from above.
Bruce ran as fast as he could through the front door of the mansion and into the main hall. He bolted straight up the stairs and headed for the roof access. A cloaked figure quickly bolted from the doorway in front of him and sprinted down the main corridor, with Bruce in close pursuit.
Although hooded, Bruce had caught a clear glimpse of his assailant's identity – Sondra Fuller. She had briefly turned to mark his progress when rounding a corner. Bruce put any questions concerning her guilt and motivation to one side until he caught her. She was damned fast, but Bruce knew his home better.
As she took a left turn towards the ballroom, Bruce headed right to cut her off. But he stopped short when he came upon an empty corridor. Then he saw her cloak; discarded in front of the ballroom door. He barged into the large room with furious calm.
"Fuller!" he shouted, attracting the attention of the entire cast and crew, who were filming a scene.
"Cut," said Preston wearily. "Bruce, please don't shout when we're filming…"
"Sondra Fuller just tried to kill me and Julie," Bruce declared, pointing accusingly at the actress, who feigned ignorance.
"What?" she said, bluffing remarkably well. "What are you saying? Something happened to you and Julie? Is she okay?"
"Don't gimme that!" shouted Bruce. "You just dropped a chunk of rock on us, and then I chased you in here!"
There were murmurs coming from the crowded room.
"Sir," said Alfred, who had approached Bruce. "Miss Fuller has been filming in here for several minutes now."
"What?" said Bruce. "That's not possible… I saw her. It was her…"
"Bruce," said Preston, "just calm down. Is Julie alright?"
"Yeah," said Bruce, his thoughts now returning to a more efficient pace. "She's outside…"
"Someone better go and check on her," said Preston. "Whoever did this may still be around. Call the police, somebody…"
As everyone starting moving cautiously around, Bruce turned to Alfred. "It was her, I'm sure of it."
"We've all been watching her, sir," said Alfred. "She can't have been in two places at once…"
Lieutenant Bullock yawned as he reread Bruce Wayne's statement for the fourth time. "Gotta tell ya, Wayne; you should be the one writing this movie. You got some imagination."
Bruce shrugged. "I definitely followed someone in here from the roof, Lieutenant. It looked like Miss Fuller, but… I suppose I could be mistaken…"
"You 'suppose' you could be mistaken?" said Bullock. "They got her on camera in a room full of fifty people. You are mistaken, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce gave the Lieutenant a blank look. "Thank you for your understanding."
"Nobody saw anyone enter before you," added Bullock. "But, with everyone distracted by the filming, I guess somebody coulda slipped in unseen."
"Did you find any, um, clues, Lieutenant?" Bruce asked, making the question seem naïve.
"Dusted the broken masonry for prints, as well as the roof access door," said Bullock. "Nothing; but that's hardly surprising, as the killer woulda worn gloves. We also took away that cloak you say 'she' was wearing. Costume department says it's one of theirs, but nobody saw it get taken. We'll have our best 'lab boys' look over it, Mr. Wayne, don't you worry."
Bruce smiled at Bullock's patronising tone and the detective wandered off to berate his fellow officers. Bruce made his way over to Julie, who was wrapped in a blanket.
"Cold?" he asked her.
"Hm?" she looked up at him and smiled brightly. "Oh, no. Someone just gave me this 'cause, y'know, I've been in an accident."
Bruce gave a small laugh. He had to go out. "Listen, Julie… I really want to continue our… discussion. But I'm afraid I just got a, uh, business call and…"
Julie waved. "It's okay, Bruce; I understand. My dad used to say: 'Time is money, and since time waits for no man, neither does money.'"
"Nice," said Bruce. "I might make that the company motto." Giving an affectionate shoulder tap, Bruce then crossed to Alfred, yet felt a sense of sorrow at having left Julie. As if he had drawn the blinds on an already dark room.
"Sir," said Alfred, "Mr. Fox just called. He needs to see you."
Bruce nodded, going into professional mode. "As soon as the cops leave, I'm heading 'downstairs' anyway. Make the usual excuses for me."
"Master Wayne… I couldn't help noticing that you and Miss Madison seem quite… familiar," said Alfred with a heavy tone.
Bruce cockily slipped back into a more casual attitude. "Alfred, if you're going to give me 'The Talk', I think you're a bit late…"
Alfred maintained his serious expression. "I'm just worried about you, sir. You're already occupied with both these murders and finding Dr. Crane. Now, with something this personal… It's easy to lose focus."
"Batman isn't easily distracted, Alfred," said Bruce.
"But you are, Master Wayne. You are."
"You are in for a surprise," said Lucius. Bruce had arrived at Wayne Enterprises to find Lucius in the Applied Science department, as usual, albeit somewhat more enthused than normal.
"The skin fragment?" asked Bruce. "You found something?"
"Boy, did I," said Lucius. He showed Bruce some computer monitors which displayed reams of data all meaningless to Bruce.
Lucius pointed frantically to one fact-filled screen. "First off; even the most basic scans told me that while the fragment looked and felt like skin, it was not."
Bruce shrugged. "So what is it?"
Lucius pointed importantly at another screen. "Pseudoderm."
"What?"
"A type of artificial skin developed a couple of years ago by a Doctor Bart Magan for medical purposes. His idea was that it would be used as a skin graft when no actual human tissue was available. It would cover a wound or burn, acting like normal skin until the real skin healed."
Bruce frowned as he took these facts in. "Why haven't I heard of it?"
"It was found to be infectious to open wounds over a long period, and it was scrapped."
"So what's it doing in Daggett's office?" Bruce mused. "Did the killer even leave it?"
Lucius switched to his 'now-here's-the-best-bit' speech. "That's where things get interesting," he said. "After it was abandoned by the medical profession, the government naturally became interested. The CIA had a top secret project codenamed 'Aristotle'…"
"Which, despite being top secret, you know everything about?" said Bruce.
Lucius smirked. "Please, Mr. Wayne; with our government, I just had to use Wikipedia." Bruce chuckled and Lucius continued with his briefing.
"Project Aristotle was concerned with using pseudoderm in creating realistic disguises for undercover operations."
"Disguises?" Bruce repeated. This odd new information struggled to find purchase in his head.
Lucius nodded. "It was dropped because too many things interfered with the adhesive; but they could mould masks out of the pseudoderm that looked and felt real. Shaped padding under the mask accounted for any differences in facial structure; wigs and coloured contact lenses took care of any minor aesthetic differences."
"That's how Payne could be in two places at once…" Bruce realised. "And Fuller…" Off Lucius' confused look, Bruce quickly explained the situation that had occurred at the mansion.
"The killer is disguising himself – or herself – in order to create the perfect alibi," said Bruce. "At least this means Payne and Fuller aren't suspects…"
"Aren't they?" said Lucius. "Either one of them could be working with the real killer, or they could be in it together. As you said; the pseudoderm mask would give them perfect alibis.
"Plus," added Lucius, "a disguise alone isn't worth anything, no matter how realistic it is. To fool your victims well enough to get close to them, you'd have to pull off not just the appearance of someone they know, but their voice, body language, mannerisms… It would take a true master of disguise; someone talented in the art of mimicry and deception…"
"Someone like an actor…" said Bruce.
"Calm down, Mrs. Griggs," said Gordon. "I know this is hard, but we need all the information we can if we're going to recover your husband safely."
There had been a 911 call about a half hour ago: A woman claimed her husband had been abducted from their bedroom as they slept. A serious crime, but sadly a common occurrence in Gotham. What was not common was the fact that the woman claimed that her husband had been taken from his bed in the night by a man dressed like a scarecrow.
"Go on," Gordon gently encouraged the crying wife. "When you're ready."
Mrs. Griggs composed herself enough to continue. "I got woke up by th-this singing – someone was singing some lullaby or something, I don't know…" She grew heavy with emotion again.
"Who was it, Mrs. Griggs?" Gordon asked. He already knew, but needed to hear it.
"A scarecrow," she gasped. "He took my husband… Ben tried to fight back, but the… the Scarecrow sprayed this gas or something…"
"Did he say anything?" asked Gordon. "Before he left?"
Mrs. Griggs nodded, tears welling up. "He said 'Ichabod has come for Brom'… What does that mean?"
Gordon could not give her an answer. He left the room to the other detectives, knowing they'd find nothing. Crane was too meticulous. But he had given a clue of some kind, which Gordon mulled over as he stepped out into the backyard of the family home.
"Benjamin Griggs," he said aloud, knowing Batman was listening. "Thirty-two; construction worker; married with two kids."
"And a graduate of O'Neil Memorial High School," said Batman from the shadows.
"The same high school as Crane," Gordon said. He had been looking into Crane's background, but he hadn't been able to see the link with Griggs until now. "Another vendetta?"
"Crane believes these people have wronged him in some way," Batman confirmed. "But he's probably using them to 'perfect' his toxin as well."
Gordon sighed. He wanted Crane brought in, and fast. "You hear what the wife said? The message Crane gave?"
"A reference to Ichabod Crane, the main character from The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving. Crane's psyche report indicates he was given 'Ichabod' as a cruel nickname in high school. Sounds like he views Griggs as 'Brom Bones', the antagonist of Sleepy Hollow."
"Crane's clever," said Gordon. "He's knows how to manipulate the psychiatrists at Arkham – hell, he used to be one – but they've been able to determine that he's always seen himself as the victim. He uses his intelligence to dominate and intimidate others."
"That's what the message was for," said Batman. "He's telling us that, like Ichabod, he's the one suffering because of 'Brom'."
Gordon shook his head. "Seems like more than that… Why would he care what we think?"
"Because deep down, all Crane wants is recognition and acceptance," said Batman. "This is his twisted way of getting it. He wants us to respect his genius."
"It seems like more," said Gordon contemplatively. "Like he's taunting us in some way…"
Batman was about to tell Gordon not to take the message too personally when a thought struck him. Something that had been scratching at the back of his mind since he heard Mrs. Griggs relay Crane's message.
"The Sleepy Hollow Motel!" said Batman. "Just outside city limits; to the north. You know it?"
"Uh, yeah," said Gordon, rallying his thoughts to this outburst. "It's been abandoned for years. You don't think…?"
"Get a unit over there!" shouted Batman as he ran towards the Bat-pod.
Crane, in his full Scarecrow attire, paced leisurely before Griggs' bound body in one of the disused motel's bedrooms.
"So… What have you been up to since high school, Ben?" he asked. Griggs simply lay there, trying and failing to hide the terror in his eyes.
"I'm sure you never told anyone that you used to bully the infamous Doctor Jonathan Crane, psychiatrist turned psychopath," said Crane. "But I'll bet you looked exceedingly knowing whenever my name was mentioned."
Crane moved to leer over Griggs. "What? No witty comeback, Ben? Not going to call me Ichabod for old time's sake?
"I suppose you're not to blame. It's a cliché, but it's usually true: The bully is more afraid that the one he picks on. You see, Ben; you're just a victim of your fears, like everyone else."
"P-Please don't kill me," said Griggs. "I have a family…"
"Aww," taunted Crane. "And they would be so terribly afraid if they lost you, wouldn't they?"
"Yes," whispered Griggs, too scared to know if Crane's question was genuine or not.
"Good…" Crane whispered back.
Suddenly a black blur crashed through the window and kicked Crane square in the face. It was the Batman. He used the bladed fins along his gauntlet to cut the rope that bound Griggs.
"Run!" he shouted.
With Griggs escaping, Crane took advantage of the distraction to spray gas from an aerosol in his sleeve into the Batman's face.
Batman allowed this attack – knowing he was immune to Crane's toxin – in order to get Crane closer. He grabbed Crane's arm and twisted the skinny psychiatrist into submission. But something was wrong.
Batman found his limbs becoming heavier. His breathing rate was increasing and he was overwhelmed with drowsiness. The spray, he realised, wasn't Crane's usual hallucinogen. Its effects felt more like a sedative.
"Sleepy?" Crane said in a mocking voice. With the Batman weakened, he easily freed himself and stood over the Dark Knight, who had fallen to his knees, trying to stay awake. "And I thought bats were nocturnal."
Everything went dark.
When he awoke, Batman immediately chastised himself for falling into Crane's trap. He should have been more alert; he should have seen how it was too obvious, too arrogant. Alfred was right; his attention was split. Unfocused. Between hunting Crane, and solving the Clayface murders, and his feelings for Julie.
Julie…
He couldn't let himself get distracted so easily. Because of it, he was now chained to a psychiatric couch in a room full of mist. At least he could still feel his mask and utility belt on his person. Either Crane had been deterred by their inbuilt defences, or he had simply neglected to remove them. He still couldn't reach the belt – perhaps he should store lock-picks in his gloves in future – but he would find some way out of the restraints.
"We are the hollow men… We are the stuffed men…" Crane's voice drifted through the mist. "Leaning together, heads full of straw…" Batman couldn't see him in the fog, but that was what Crane wanted; the disembodied voice, the eerie poetry – all meant to intimidate.
"This is the way the world ends," Crane continued his macabre recital. "Not with a bang but a whimper." He emerged, standing next to the couch still dressed in his scarecrow outfit.
"Crane!" Batman shouted, as if his fury alone would win out.
"Ah-ah-ah," Crane waved his finger in the negative. "Scarecrow."
"Is that a rationalization, Crane?" said Batman. He had to keep him distracted, think of a way out of the chains. "Do you feel better knowing that it's 'Scarecrow' and not Jonathan Crane committing murder?"
Crane laughed. "Very good, Batman. What daytime TV talk-show host did you borrow that pop psychology from? You've grossly simplified the concept of rationalization. You see, rationalization occurs when–"
"What have you done with Griggs?" Batman demanded. He was breaking down Crane's air of superiority; undermining him.
Crane, although his features were hidden behind his mask, seemed offended by this interruption. "I'm sure he's quite safe. Assuming you alerted your cop friends to my little motel hideaway. Pity – I did like that old place; plenty of rooms, out of the way…"
Batman realised this meant they were in a separate location. He couldn't count on a last-minute rescue.
"I like what you've done with your image by the way," said Crane. "Batman – Cop Killer! That's sure to have all the crooks running scared. You and I are quite alike, you know…"
"We are nothing alike," said Batman.
"We both rely on fear," said Crane. "We both understand it; respect it; use it like the surgical instrument it is."
"You use it as an excuse for your lethal experiments!" shouted Batman.
"Oh… But they do have a glorious purpose, Batman," said Crane. "I'm refining that little potion I got from those rather intense foreign gentlemen two years ago. You really put a downer on their plans, didn't you?"
"What are you up to this time, Crane?" asked Batman. He needed to keep Crane talking, and Crane might, in his arrogance, reveal too much.
"My compound will now seep directly into your subconscious and your imagination. Through the twisted magic of hallucination – auditory, visual and tactile – you'll see your worst nightmares brought to life. Stuff you didn't even know you were scared of. And it will just get worse and worse until your heart can't take it any more and you… die of fright… So much more fitting, don't you think?"
"That's what happened to Brahms and Squires?"
"With Brahms I only got to watch him die in sheer mortal terror. I didn't know what he was seeing. So, like any scientist, I learned from my mistakes. With Shelley, I added a little lexium veritol to the mix – an experimental truth serum. She described everything. It was beautiful.
"That's when I knew I was ready for you," Crane bragged. "When capturing Griggs, I left a clue that I knew you couldn't resist. You're probably wondering why I left your mask on. That would be too easy for someone of my psychological expertise. The best – and only – way to really know someone is through their fears.
"Don't think you're protected by that antidote you fashioned last time," said Crane. "I've worked my way around it. You should be starting to feel the effects…"
Crane was right; Batman's vision was blurring, his hearing distorting. It was like a bad dream. He had to fight it, he couldn't let Crane win. But it pulled too strongly at him.
"What is the most feared man in Gotham afraid of?" said Crane. "You're going to tell me. You're going to tell me everything.
"Tell me, Batman… What do you see?"