Chapter 21

Without saying a word, Pamela Isley hurriedly scurried into Bruce's spacious office, and unceremoniously plopped herself down in the chair placed in front of Bruce's desk. Her head hung low, and she did not peer up to look at him.

Bruce Wayne attempted to put on a casual air, smiling broadly even as he carefully scrutinized the woman in front of him. She was of above-average height and slender, although her rather baggy, wrinkled wardrobe seemed to conceal her figure. Wearing a white lab coat on top of a plain lime green blouse and a dark green skirt, her pale face was hidden behind the distorting lenses of her large round-framed glasses which sat askew on her sharp nose. Her dark red hair was rather unkempt, sticking out of a sloppy ponytail. Like many a redhead, her skin was pale—almost deathly so.

"Tea?" She shook her head. Bruce got up and went to the hot water dispenser, using the opportunity to get a 360 look at her. In her seat, she remained still.

A steaming mug of English tea in hand, he came up beside her. "Well, thank you for coming, Miss—pardon me, Doctor Isley, I always like to meet new employees. Bruce Wayne, head of Wayne Enterprises." He offered his hand.

"Pamela," she said softly as she raised hers. "Pamela Isley." Gripping it, he was immediately struck by how literally cold her flesh was, and the taut tendons and ligaments of her long-fingered hand. Like shaking hands with... a mannequin? a corpse?

"Mister Wayne, I—"

He winced. Holding up a hand, he said: "Please, call me Bruce!"

"Sorry, sir—I mean, Mister Bruce, Sir," she mumbled, her voice trailing off into nothing.

"So, you went to Yale, right?" She nodded. "I went to Princeton myself. Too bad about your Bulldogs, eh? Not that my Tigers did all that well this season, but they did win the Big 3, and all that."

"If you say so, Mister Wayne. I... really don't follow football."

Neither do I, to be honest. "Oh well, that doesn't matter. I must say, I'm thoroughly impressed with your academic record," Bruce said, and that was the truth. He continued: "Admitted to Yale at the age of 16, graduating salutatorian in three years, a Ph.D at CalTech in four." He chuckled. "Frankly, it was a minor miracle I survived junior year. Too many nights boozing on the Street and all that." A way to drink away my pain, at least until I planned to end it once and for all...

"Guess your wondering why someone like me would apply for a entry-level lab tech position cleaning test tubes," she mumbled.

It did cross my mind. But before he could respond, she exclaimed with surprising vehemence: "Let's stop playing games, okay 'Bruce'? I'm sure your records also include my 'Special Notes' file. Did you hire me to get a laugh? A way to make yourself feel important? Well, ha ha, very funny!" She fell silent, looking like she was about to cry.

"Uh," Bruce stammered. 'Special Notes'? He started flipping through the pages in front of him. There it was, a big black folder marked, 'Special Notes', apparently collected by New Pinkerton Investigators, a private investigation firm that large businesses like his own consulted for background checks.

"I'll save you the trouble of reading it," she said acidly. "Because of my 'outrageous accusations' of sexual harassment against my thesis advisor, Doctor Jason Woodrue, I've been blackballed from academia. And it turns out that Big Business isn't too keen on hiring people who speak out on environmental issues, so I can't work in industry, either." Quickly skimming through the file, he saw she was telling the truth. Indeed, there was a 'Code 45A—Hiring Strongly Discouraged' note scrawled across her application.

He tried to smile in sympathy. "I won't lie to you, Doctor Isley, it isn't a mark in your favor, but at least you were able to find some employment, at Cataldi Pharmaceuticals."

Pamela's face betrayed no flicker of reaction. She merely nodded and said: "And look what happened. A bunch of crazy radicals try to kill us all with anthrax. I hope they burn in hell," she spat.

"Obviously you disapprove of the methods of Green Dawn," he said quickly. She made the first move...

Her eyes widened. "Disapprove? I spent two days coughing my lungs out in a hospital! Most of my associates never left. As far as I'm concerned, I'd rather die of pollution than misguided idealism, thank you very much."

Bruce got up and began pacing the room. Let's play this out. "But just because some people go to extremes, doesn't mean what they're saying isn't true. Does John Brown attempting to foment slave insurrection mean his cause of antislavery was wrong?"

Now Pamela smiled, not an unattractive sight. "Looks like you did more than just drink your life away in Princeton, Mister Wayne." He nodded in acknowledgement. Suddenly, an ugly sneer blighted her face. "I don't care anymore, all I'm concerned with now is making a living. Idealism and selfless dedication to a cause may something to do when you're young, but time inevitably marches on. Better to leave things as they may."

"I'm afraid you're wrong about that, Doctor Isley, even though I sympathize," Bruce said softly. Instantly he chided himself. Did I reveal too much too soon?

She cocked her head, holding Bruce in her gaze. "Well, I suppose it's easy to embrace lost causes when you've got a billion or two other things to fall back on if you fail."

Actually, not so easy, Miss Isley. Not so easy at all. He dared not say that, however. Instead he smiled and said: "Maybe. but one thing to remember: never give up, Miss Isley. Never give up."

"Yeah, yeah," she replied irritably, rudely looking away. I've heard about geniuses lacking social graces, looks like it wasn't just a cliché

Bruce sat down. "I don't think you have to worry about your past, anymore, Doctor. Wayne Enterprises is happy to have someone of your talents here."

Pamela got up. "Thank you," she said quietly, no longer so brash. "May I start getting to work?"

"Of course. Good day, Doctor Isley."

"Good bye, Mister Wayne—Bruce." She turned and left.

When the door closed, Bruce sat back, thinking. "Nancy," he said into the intercom, "I'm going home early today."

Bruce Wayne squinted as the rapidly setting sun cast a brilliant shadow across the Gotham skyline, flooding the Pad with blinding light. Accessing the police network, he searched the records for anything related to Pamela Isley post-Cataldi, and eventually found the notes from a detective's interview with Isley in Gotham Sacred Heart Hospital two days after the Cataldi attack. To his disappointment, apparently she had no information about anyone with motive or ability to attack Cataldi Pharmaceuticals. There was also a followup investigation—apparently the fact that Isley was a molecular biologist with an environmental activist background had not escaped the attention of the police, either. The cops had done a search under secret warrant of her place several days later and found nothing incriminating at the time. Phone records and a one-day surveillance found nothing either. They did find that a few people in various environmental groups that she had been a member of in the past had disappeared recently, but a second round of questioning had found nothing. Pressed by immediate events, the police had folded their investigation of her and others like her, concentrating instead on the attacks themselves.

Darkness was coming soon, and he was looking forward to finally going back out on patrol again. Without any new leads to follow, he decided he would concentrate on ordinary crime tonight. The mystery of Isley stuck with him, however, percolating in the back of his mind while Batman prepared to take flight once again.

Brilliant scientist with a background in genetics?

He didn't know exactly what kind of knowledge someone would need to be able to create the kind of bioweapons Green Dawn had made, but based on his own nontrivial science background Isley could probably do it. Then again, one of my classmates at Princeton boasted that even he could build an atom bomb, as long as he could get access to the material. Knowledge is less important than having the resources necessary to translate ideas into reality. Being an eminently practical man, Bruce would not disagree.

Environmental activist?

Based on her file, she had been something of an outspoken opponent of many environmental pet peeves like global warming, cutting down the rainforests, pollution. But no documented involvement with existing radical groups like Earth First or ALF. This was negative evidence, but it was important never to assume. Besides, corporate America tends to overreact to those with dissident opinions, no matter how justified. Not only were environmentalists on the watch list, but so were civil rights activists, advocates for the poor, immigrants, and all other sorts of nonprofitable causes. Bruce the CEO felt a certain shame about that. Need more data.

Femme fatale?

To his slight shame, Bruce had paid close attention to Isley's appearance, knowing full well how women hated that outside of the appropriate context. Tall, not too fat, those are pluses. Legs—can't remember, but probably decent. Face...

He was having trouble remembering the details of her face. No major blemishes or irregularities, but she was deathly pallid, and the less said about her hair the better! And a woman with glasses was definitely not sexy by Bruce's standards, either.

It's more than just physical appearance. Based on his brief interaction with her, feminine wiles would be the last thing he expected Pamela Isley to be an expert in. Bruce tried to imagine her seducing someone like Franks or Hayashi—and failed. Instead, all that came to mind was the severe image of his fifth grade math teacher. Mrs. Petrosh, with her steel-grey hair in a tightly woven bun and square spectacles staring forebodingly out at the terrified members of the class, all of whom feared getting a rap on the knuckles with her ruler for failing to pay attention or answer her questions correctly.

Beauty and brains: so desirable. So rare.

But Bruce was not disappointed. Somehow, I'm sure she has connections with people who have links to Green Dawn, however tenuous. If I can get to know her better, I might be able to gain her trust and pick up some new leads. He left the shack on the Batcycle a happy man. Two hours later, though, news of another attack quickly made his joy transmute into rage.

A band of car thieves would bear the brunt of his released fury that night, suffering more than the usual share of broken ribs and knocked-out teeth.

It was almost four in the morning before Batman returned to the shed and Bruce Wayne could return to the Pad and sleep. Pamela Isley was there to greet him, smiling. She slowly removed those unflattering brown plastic frames from her face and let down her hair.

Red and green fire filled his dreams, beckoning...