Title: Criminal Acts (11/19)
Author: StargazerNataku
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama
Characters: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with death.
A/N: I keep forgetting to thank my awesometastic beta gaudy_night. So here's to her, for putting up with my chapter-spam and helping me with ideas and plot and everything. I am also coming to realize I may have also thrown ideas off someone else on this one, but I can't find the emails (as they were awhile ago…), so if it was you please tell me because I feel pretty darn crappy I forgot. As Gandalf said about Butterbur, "Memory like a lumberyard. Thing wanted always buried." That's me to a T, and it's not because I'm not thankful, promises. Enjoy Chapter 11! Also, note: this fic now has 19 chapters instead of 18. Well it well once I write it anyway. ^_^ It may even go up to 20; depends on how well I can keep everything down to size.
Chapter 11
The full moon hung high above the skyscrapers of Gotham City, casting pure white light onto their heights so their stone, metal and glass shone brilliantly as the midnight hour chimed from the city's churchbells. The streets below, however, were steeped in shadows, light never reaching the litter-strewn wastelands of crime and decay. Patrolman Allen drove slowly down the dark streets, lit faintly by the subtle glow of few intact streetlamps and the headlights of the squad car. His partner sat by his side, his attention on the shadowy figures loitering on the steps of dilapidated tenements despite the lateness of the hour and the chilly late spring night.
"I hate this beat," Meyer commented briefly when he saw two smaller figures huddled against a larger one. "No way kids should be sleepin' on the street like that."
"Yeah. Mission must have been full. Things've been harder than usual lately."
Meyer nodded his agreement as the car's radio flared to life, squawking out a report of gunshots fired. He noted the location, and addressed his partner as he picked up the mike. "We're closest," he said, and radioed into dispatch that they were on their way. Allen flipped on the sirens and quickly drove the four blocks to the area where the shots had been reported. Both pulled their weapons as they jumped out of the car, eyes scanning the area.
It was Allen who saw it first. The pool of blood spread into the light of the single working streetlamp on the block, and both men moved slowly towards the body lying at the mouth of an alley, weapons held at the ready. Meyer dropped into a kneeling position, his hand going to the victim's neck to feel a distinct lack of pulse. "Don't bother," Allen said as Meyer reached for his radio to call for an ambulance. "There's nothing gonna bring him back from that. Not with his brains all over the street." Meyer glanced to the man's wounds and nodded, sitting back on his heels, studying the scene as Allen reached for his own radio.
A slight sound from the pitch-black alley several feet from them caused both men to freeze. Allen leveled his gun into the darkness and shifted slightly into the shadows outside the light of the solitary streetlamp. Meyer stayed crouched where he was, shifting slightly on the balls of his feet, ready to move. Both were well aware of their disadvantage, of the light streaming down on them, obscuring the darkness from which the sound had come. "Police!" Allen yelled into the darkness, "Come out into the light!" They waited together, listening hard for any indication there was someone else there. There was no other sound, no movement in the darkness; Meyer was certain his heartbeat was audible in the dead of the night. He shifted and cursed quietly under his breath as Allen again challenged whoever it was in the alley to show himself. An instant passed before there was the loud bang of a trash can lid hitting the ground, immediately followed by the sight of a lean grey and white cat streaking into the light before disappearing into the darkness down the street.
"Damn cat," Meyer said, lowering his weapon and turning to face the body again. Allen remained still, staring into the darkness for a long moment before his gun slowly started to fall to his side. He turned to speak to his partner as the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot broke the utter silence and stillness. Allen's gun was up again in seconds and went off an instant, firing blindly into the darkness as a second shot was fired. In the process of rising to his feet, Meyer was knocked off them as the bullet drove its way into his chest, his gun unfired as it fell from limp fingers.
Allen, bleeding from the shoulder, fired twice more into the darkness, but could see as a shadowy figure, hand to his arm, turned the corner in the dim light adorning the entry at the end of the alley. He cursed, knowing he'd be unable to catch their attacker, and moved to Meyer's side instead. His hand, slick with the blood running down his arm, picked up his radio. "Officer down!" he reported, giving their location, pressing hard onto the wound as Meyer gasped for air. "Come on partner, don't you give up on me," he told the other man, who nodded. "We're not going down like this. Neither of us."
Dizziness assaulted his senses, however, and he felt his hands going weak on Meyer's injury. "Damn it," he cursed, swaying noticeably as he knelt, crisp blue pants soaked crimson from the blood of the victim and his partner. It was so severe he thought he imagined the slight whoosh of sound as booted feet hit the pavement. He did not miss, however, the black figure suddenly looming over him like his worst childhood nightmares given form. For a moment his heart stopped as his slick hand tried to gain purchase on his gun, but the figure kicked the weapon aside as he knelt beside them, cape tossed back over strong shoulders, well-muscled arms and hands appearing. One took Allen by his good shoulder and gently but insistently forced him to lie back beside his partner. From inside the darkness of the cape appeared a roll of bandaging, and in an instant there was something in place tightly pressing onto the wound.
He watched, dizzy with pain and the loss of blood as the shadowy figure bent over his partner, working quickly there as well, wrapping the wound as best he could, given its severity and location. Suddenly startled, the cowled head jerked up as the sound of sirens began to sink into his consciousness. In an instant, there was a sound like a gun and the figure was shooting upwards, disappearing into the moonlit upper canyons of Gotham.
Unable to process what he had seen, Allen fought to keep his eyes open to keep watch over his partner, already unconscious and dying, but soon succumbed to the darkness.
Gerry Stephens woke suddenly to his wife's elbow digging repeatedly into his ribs. "What?" he mumbled, sleep hazing his mind without recognizing the ringing of the cell phone on his nightstand.
"Wake up and answer your phone," she told him, her annoyed tone hinting to the fact it had been ringing for longer than he usually let it. He pushed himself into a sitting position and grabbed at it, flipping it open and putting it to his ear before allowing himself to fall back into the pillow tiredly. "Stephens," he said, bracing himself for what he was going to hear.
"It's Montoya," the other detective said without preamble. "And we have a situation to manage."
"What now?" he said, keeping the groan out of his voice only with a distinct effort.
"I'll tell you when you get here. I'm at Gotham General."
"Gotham General…Is Jim okay?"
"He's fine, but two patrolmen were shot. Allen's going to make it, but Meyer's still in surgery."
"Shouldn't their lieutenant…."
"Gerry, I need you here, because Allen's already awake and starting to ask questions, the annoying bastard."
"About?"
"The..." Montoya cleared her throat. "Good Samaritan who treated them before backup arrived."
"Good Sa…oh, Christ."
"Exactly. See you soon." The phone went dead. Stephens sighed and flipped his phone closed. For a long moment he lay still, rubbing his face. Then, pushing back the sheets on his side of the bed, he swung his legs over the edge and sat for a moment, making sure he was fully awake before rising. He pulled the covers back up over his side of the bed, taking care to tuck them in closely around his wife where she lay.
"Where are you going this time?" she asked, less sleep in her voice than before.
"Gotham General," he said, glancing at the clock as he stepped into his pants. One forty-five. "Jim's fine, but two of our people were shot. Montoya needs a hand."
"Can't she call someone else? Gerry, you haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks. You're not twenty-two anymore, and you've got the entire city on your shoulders."
"Unfortunately, Jess, it's gotta be me."
"Why?" she demanded, and there was more worry in her voice than anger. "Why can't she call…"
"Because I'm standing in for the commish, Jess. It's what the Mayor wants until Jim's up and about."
"And if Jim is never ready to come back? Are we going to do this every night until you retire or worse?" He hesitated, looking into the mirror in which he was straightening his tie, his gaze meeting hers. With a soft sigh, he turned and crossed the room again, sitting on the bed next to her and taking her hand.
"This is only temporary, Jess. You know Jim Gordon as well as I do. The job is his life and he'll do it as long as he's able. He'll pull through, and he'll be back."
"And if he doesn't, Gerry? What then?" Stephens thought of Barbara, asleep down the hall in his older son's bedroom and Jim's children sleeping in his younger son's, and leaned forward. Wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, he kissed her gently.
"If he doesn't, then I tell the Mayor where he can shove the job."
"Promise?"
"Promise." She smiled finally and sat up to hug him.
"Stay safe." He nodded and kissed her again before rising from the bed with a final squeeze of her hand.
"Get some more sleep. For me, yeah?" She laughed.
"I always do," she said, lying back down again.
"Rub it in," he teased, shutting the door quietly behind him before shrugging into his suit jacket and heading downstairs and out to the car.
Stephens found Montoya in the surgical waiting rooms, deep in thought, flipping her badge around in her fingers restlessly. She stood when he entered and, surprisingly, refrained from commenting on his wrinkled pants and the dark circles under his eyes. But a matching set graced her own tired features, a weariness carefully masked under a guise of irritation. "I don't know what the hell he was thinking," she said, after checking they were alone. "You have any idea what to tell Allen?"
"I was going to wing it," he said. "Assuming they're letting him have visitors."
"They let me in, and he asked for you specifically. I arranged it with the nurses, or I wouldn't have called you over here."
"Their families been informed?"
"Allen's mother is on her way from Metropolis as we speak and they're still trying to get hold of Meyer's wife. She wasn't at home, and she didn't answer any of her phone numbers. She's often out of town for work, from what I was told. They're trying to track her down."
"He still in surgery?"
"Meyer? Yeah. Allen's in the recovery room."
"All right." He turned and Montoya followed him out of the waiting room to the nurses' station.
"Detective Stephens?" she asked after noting Montoya a pace behind. At his nod, she continued. "I'll ask you to keep your interview short. He's doing very well, but he does need rest."
"Of course."
"I already took his statement," Montoya told him under her breath. "And I.A. is sending someone in the morning. Then we'll be out of it. Except for the murder, of course."
"Of course," he commented dryly as he opened the door to Allen's room after a brief knock. "Officer Allen," he said, and the black man in the bed opened his eyes and looked at Stephens, then gave a nod. "You doing all right?"
"Yeah," the man said. "Doc said I'll be fine."
"Good," Stephens said, crossing to sit down in the chair beside the bed. "That's lucky."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Allen said.
"No?"
"No." Allen stared at him for a long moment and the men neither spoke nor looked to Montoya, standing at the door, listening for traffic in the hall outside. After a long time, Allen broke the silence. "What's going on with him?" he demanded.
"With who?"
"You know who," Allen said. "The reason I'm still sitting here and not bled out on the corner of Kane and Meltzer."
"Some good Samaritan must have decided to help you out."
"No normal person wanders around with bandaging in their pockets, Detective. I saw him. Like something out of your worst nightmares, only he bandaged us up instead of any of the alternatives I thought were going to happen."
"I imagine you weren't in your right mind," Stephens said.
"Don't pull that," Allen responded. "I saw him. I saw the Batman."
"You were delirious, Allen. In a lot of pain, you didn't know what you saw."
"Sir, I did. I damned well know that…"
"No, Patrolman. Let me be perfectly clear on this. You were delirious and you didn't see who helped you clearly. I don't care if you thought you saw the Batman, the President, or the God-damned Easter Bunny. You were delirious with blood loss and obviously saw something that wasn't there." They stared at each other for several long moments, neither breaking the other's unrelenting gaze. Finally Allen spoke.
"Is that how it is?" he demanded. "Christ, I thought Gordon's people were supposed to be different. The city thinks you're all angels, and you'll lie to me. To everyone."
Stephens tamped down on the anger that was rising, and silently cursed in the general direction of Commissioner James Gordon for putting this situation square in his lap. "We do what we have to do for the good of this city, Allen, and I don't like your tone. What we do we do for good reason, even if we don't share them with every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the force." He rose abruptly. "Don't mess with this, Patrolman. I mean it. If not for your own good, for the Commissioner. Got it?"
The glare held for a few moments longer. "Yeah, I got it," Allen said, finally, his eyes narrowed.
"Thank you," Stephens said, rising to his feet. "Get some rest, Allen. You look like you need it." He turned and looked at Montoya, who opened the door. Together they stepped into the hallway, the door closing with a click behind them.
"That went well," Montoya commented.
"He didn't believe a word of that, did he," Stephens responded.
"Not a word," Montoya agreed, almost cheerfully.
"Damn it. This is…" He stopped mid-sentence, however, as a doctor appeared before him, looking solemn.
"Detective Stephens, is it?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Have your people had any luck finding officer Meyer's next of kin?"
"Not that we know of," Montoya answered, tension in her voice. "Why?"
"I'm afraid the officer didn't make it, detectives. We did everything we could, but the damage was too extensive to repair. I'm sorry."
Stephens bit back another curse, his rising anger choking his throat, making him unable to speak. It was Montoya who assured the doctor they'd do their best and thanked him, turning back to Stephens when the man disappeared quickly.
"Gerry," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder as she studied the back of his head, standing a pace behind. He raised a hand to ward off her concern, and they stood for a long moment in silence. Montoya broke it first. "Gerry," she said again.
"No, Renee," he practically growled, turning back to her. "This has gone too far. Everything is falling apart, we've got officers dropping like flies, and we're no closer to finding the asshole who's doing this. Just know that we've got a fucking madman with a Makarov in his hands, taking us out one at a time. Our people are dying, other people are dying, the mayor's breathing down my neck and we don't have a name or a motive or even a fucking suspect! Damn it!" He twisted and let his fist fly, striking the wall with all his strength. An instant passed, and the pain caused him to stop, his anger slowly melting away, leaving only weariness in the sudden slump of his posture.
"Feel better?" Montoya asked.
"No. Worse." He sighed. "I feel like I'm stabbing in the dark and trying to hit whatever the hell I can. We're better than this, better than some psycho with a gun. Jim trusted us, and we're letting him down. And I'm to the point where I don't know what the hell to do about it."
"We keep trying. The Commissioner would rip us both a new one if he heard that speech you just made."
"I know," Stephens said wryly.
"So here's what we're going to do. You're going to go home, and you're going to get some sleep. Bullock and I are both in today, we'll start going over the leads again. There's gotta be something we're missing, and all we have to do is find it. But you're exhausted, and you're no good to anyone like that."
"Montoya, I can't just lounge around in bed for a day."
"Yes you can. And you're going to. We'll cover for you. You're not scheduled anyway."
"Renee…"
"No arguments," she said. "Go home." Finally, Stephens nodded, not really feeling the desire to fight with her. He knew from experience he would lose anyway, acting commissioner or no.
"All right, but I'll be back in again for the early shift tomorrow."
"I'll see you then and call you immediately if we come up with anything case-breaking today."
"Thanks." He ran his hand through his hair. "I'll see you tomorrow." Turning, he went down the hall in the opposite direction Montoya did. He got into the elevator, and after a moment's indecision pressed the button which would let him off at the ICU.