CHAPTER 11
The main entrance had been locked. Despite the two men's combined efforts to force the door open, the heavy oak had not budged in its sturdy frame.
It had been Steinberg's idea to search the school's office for a key. The office door was also locked but allowed access through a window of dust frosted glass. With the butt of his revolver, Steinberg smashed open an entrance for the unlikely duo.
Hauling himself through the jagged opening, The Dark Knight surveyed the small, cramped, shadowy space. A thick layer of dust covered the desks and filing cabinets, peppered with flakes of dried paint. The walls were pocked with damp, mouldy patches, the paint blistered and cracked.
A fairly typical example of Silent Hill chic, The Batman mused. Steinberg's assessment was equally succinct.
"What a shithole!"
Together they rummaged through drawers and cabinets. Some contained little more than stacks of textbooks and class registers, others were empty. Some simply refused to open, regardless of how much force was applied.
The Dark Knight focused his attention on the chief administrator's desk. The usual stacks of paperwork were seen there as well as an unaccountable bottle of brown liquid. He had seen an identical bottle in the tunnel beneath the Balkan church. He picked it up, his detective's curiosity piqued. It's time yellowed label said simply, "DRINK ME.
"Doesn't look like anyone's been here in years, let alone yesterday." Remarked Steinberg, who was casually tossing books, files and ornamental curios from some shelves lining the wall.
While giving the papers on the desk a cursory inspection something caught The Dark Knight's eye.
It couldn't be.
His own name was written on one of the documents.
Furtively glancing over to make sure that Steinberg's attention was otherwise occupied The Batman snatched up the document. Instantly he recognised his old boarding school's crest on the letter head. It said in imposing gothic lettering.
SAINT MICHAEL'S SCHOOL FOR THE SONS OF GENTLEMEN
ROOKWOOD, OUTER GOTHAM
RE: PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSESSMENT. WAYNE, B.
Who put this here? Pryzlak? How the Hell did he get hold of this?
The enraged detective read on;
Dear Mr Reinhardt,
I am writing to keep you abreast of the psychological condition of your pupil, one Bruce Wayne. While I agree that the changes in his behaviour are marked I do not think that concerns for his short or long term health are warranted. I thank you for bringing the boy's case to my attention.
Please find attached my psychological assessment in its entirety.
…
The Dark Knight skimmed over the next few pages. His shock addled mind absorbing snippets of information.
… manifestations of psychological trauma that are highly uncharacteristic of juvenile parental bereavement. Having liaised with school counselling and teaching staff, young Master Wayne's grief appears to have been subliminated into his academic and extra curricular activities.
…
While Bruce does not appear to have been a particularly gifted athlete nor a great academic, prior to his parents death, his recent attainments are little short of remarkable. His grades have risen dramatically from consistent Cs and Ds to uniform A+ grades. Bruce has also begun to excel in track and field exercises and gymnastics. Interestingly he has shown little enthusiasm for sports. He has signed up for extra curricular classes in fencing, judo and archery and excelled in a very short period of time.
…
Bruce's standard of academic work has risen meteorically with chemistry and philosophy emerging as areas of particular strength.
…
The spells of aggressive and antisocial behaviour have passed. After some brutal assaults upon pupils who have been identified as notorious bullies young Bruce seems to have channelled his grief into far more productive pursuits than blindly lashing out.
…
For all its positive effect on his intellectual prowess the incident appears to have left young Bruce somewhat socially malformed. Interactions with him reveal him to be very polite and articulate but seemingly uncomfortable with social interaction. It is suggested that-
"Hey, look at this." Steinberg called out.
The Batman quickly folded up the document and hurriedly stuffed it into a compartment in his belt.
He went over to join Steinberg who was appraising a map of the school which stood framed on the wall.
"Maybe we can't find a key, but if we can get through to this courtyard here," his nicotine stained finger indicated an open area separating the school into two wings, "We can hop over the wall to get out of here."
He scanned the map. There were only two sets of double doors separating them from the courtyard. They would just have to pray that they were not locked.
"Let's go." The Batman acquiesced. He did not want to spend a moment longer in the school than he absolutely had to.
They managed to leave the office by unlocking the door from the inside and the two men jogged briskly back to the corridor. They had passed through a set of double doors and were just about to pass through the other set on the opposite side when Steinberg froze.
"Did you hear that?"
The Batman tensed, his ears straining to hear anything in the blanket silence of the deserted school. After a few moments he heard it. The heaving, gurgling, choking sound of-
"Sounds like a kid crying." Steinberg asserted.
Quietly, stealthily the pair trod toward the source of the noise. They edged down the corridor, coming to a small, thin door. The silver disc on the door indicated that this was the boys' toilet.
The pair paused outside the door. The sound persisted. The crying sound escalated to a distressed wail.
Without hesitation the pair burst into the toilet. It was a small, cramped affair. Sinks and urinals were the greyish white of old bones. The piping and tiles were leprous with mildew and rust. There were three stalls, the nearest two hung open on rusted hinges, the third was shut.
It was from the third that the sound persisted.
"I'd better go first." Whispered Steinberg over the unseen child's sobbing, "No offence but it might freak the kid out seeing Batman open the door. God knows what he's seen already in this place."
The Batman nodded his consent. As Steinberg edged toward the occupied stall Batman caught sight of his reflection in the scabrous, rust pocked mirror.
He was barely recognisable. His secondary, bandana mask was nicked and torn in places, tufts of raven black hair poking through the tears. His cape hung in ragged tatters about his shoulders. His armour was scuffed and gashed, the most part of his insignia had been eaten away by the freakish maggot creatures. One hand was completely bare, the other was gloved but his gauntlet was battered and scorched with small, finger tip sized holes.
Steinberg flung the stall open. The Batman tensed. Neither man was expecting the sight that lay on the other side of the door.
Steinberg at first stood dumbfounded and then let out his nervous, broken twig laugh. The Batman crept over to join him, equally dumbfounded.
The stall was empty.
Steinbeck slapped his dark companion playfully on the shoulder.
"Damn, man. This place got us jumpin' at shadows. Hearing things, seeing things. Gonna drive me batshit insane." He winked at The Batman, "No offence."
He stepped into the stall and sat on the seatless toilet bowl, nervously scratching at his nose, teeth exposed in a nervous grin.
"Goddamn. You know Batman," he addressed The Dark Knight earnestly, "when I saw you in the corridor back there I thought you were-"
The door slammed shut.
The whole stall began to shake violently and a surprised whimper from the police officer trapped inside, soon gave way to a piercing shriek of agony. The Batman threw himself at the door but an unseen force sent him crashing into the sink opposite.
As the vigilante rose to his feet the violent shaking stopped.
"Steinberg?" he hissed.
He took two tentative steps towards the stall.
There was neither a sound nor the slightest movement. Gingerly his gloved hand tapped at the door. It swung open to reveal a gut wrenching scene of brutality.
Pete Steinberg had been eviscerated. He hung, upside down, suspended by barbed wire that appeared to originate from inside the bowl. A steaming pile of organs and viscera lay in front of the toilet. The Batman could not bring himself to look down at his murdered companion's face. Instead his eyes were drawn to the message daubed on the blood streaked tile of the wall. In large, crude, childish letters a word had been smeared on the wall.
MURDERER
The Batman's fists clenched and his snarling lip curled over his teeth.
Right on cue the blare of the siren rattled the decaying walls of Midwich Elementary School.