Chapter 29 - Busted
They spent the drive back to the mansion in silence. Jack used the visor mirror to clean off any dried blood from his face with one of the towels and the bottle of water Teresa had purchased from the pharmacy. When she parked in the garage in the same spot as before, Jack noticed his clothes still sat there in a cold, wet pile.
He picked them up and followed Teresa into the mansion. The follow up visit to the doctor's was scheduled to be in five days. Teresa reminded him to be ready and waiting in the garage at one in the afternoon that day. Jack nodded in agreement and watched as she dissappeared from sight into the depths of the mansion.
After a few days the swelling had diminished enough for the splint the doctor put on his nose to become loose. The day of the second visit, the doctor applied a local anesthetic and eased the cartilage back into place. She suggested he take over-the-counter pain meds and put ice on the nose to help with swelling. His nose looked properly aligned again, even if it was a little swollen. The bruises under his eyes were beginning to turn a poisonous bluish-yellow. Somehow, he looked worse than when he had originally sustained the injury.
The doctor told him to come back if he had trouble breathing or didn't used to snore before, but now did, or if his nose looked different than it did before.
Teresa was quite morose recently, not talking much, and deep in thought. He tried several times to get her to talk, but her answer was the usual one.
While his nose was healing, Jack attempted to try to find the spot where he had lost his wallet. He couldn't leave that lying around. If he was named a fugitive in Florida, sooner or later, if he had identification lying around, someone would find it and report him to the authorities. By a stroke of luck, he saw a newspaper article that named the street where the Wayne family, except for the boy, Bruce, was murdered. The article went on to give a lengthy obituary of one of the greatest doctors and philanthropists to ever grace Gotham City's medical and financial frontiers.
Jack hunted down a map of the city, a train schedule, and a bus schedule. He used all three to get him to the street, which was called Park Row. From there he wandered around and eventually saw the building where he had spent the night, and then walking about two or three blocks, he found the building where he had had his nose broken in. He walked under the building to the parking lot, and found it filled with shiny, expensive cars. There was a guard, a black man in a dark security uniform, that stared at him from a booth as he walked in, and nodded at Jack.
Jack walked over and said, "Did anyone find a wallet here? My name is Jack Napier."
"Yes." The guard nodded as Jack felt a wave of relief. It was painfully short-lived. Then he shrugged. "You're going to have to go to the police station to get it back though. It's ain't here."
"What?"
The guard said seriously, "You know, security cameras caught you and your boys that day."
Jack froze for a moment, his insides going cold. "Uh... And you called the police?"
"Of course. They dragged you and put you in the trunk. You could have been dead or about to be killed. They're still investigating."
"Fuck!" Jack hissed.
"It's good to see you're all right, Kid."
"I wish they had killed me," Jack muttered, more to himself than the guard. Jack received directions from the guard to the Gotham City P.D. headquarters and left.
He took a couple of buses to get to the area, and then walked about four blocks to get to the building.
He walked into the lobby and saw several people seated in the waiting area and two or three people in uniforms attending to people's needs. He was about to go to one of those reception desks when he saw some composite sketches. Jack walked over to the drawings when he realized one of them looked a hell of a lot like Joe. Then his blood ran cold for the second time that day when he saw his own face, complete with broad, well-defined jawline, brooding eyes and long hair that hung to his shoulders. He saw a metal detector a couple of feet further into the building. The detector station was not being manned at the moment.
Lowering his head, Jack strode back towards the door. Just as he put his left hand on the handle to push it open, someone called, "Hey."
Jack paused for a moment, but then kept going. As the door eased shut slowly behind him, Jack heard the same voice, "Hey you!"
Jack broke into a run as the owner of the voice came outside. "Hey stop!"
There were some cops standing around, smoking or taking breaks, their walkie-talkies crackling on and off and male and female voices uttering codes and commands. They looked at Jack curiously as they heard the man yell for him to stop. "Hey Adam, catch that kid, will ya?"
Whoever was Adam sprung into action. He vaulted over a curb and a patch of grass, as Jack crashed into a car in the driveway that has slammed on the breaks. But he couldn't go any further. The people inside the car - two cops - opened their doors and block Jack's way. Adam quickly caught up to Jack, who had come to an unagreeable standstill. He glared at the two cops who'd foiled his escape. "You fuckin' crazy?" One of the cops demanded.
The initial guy who had called to him finally caught up. He was heavyset, probably because he spent most of his time eating and sitting at a desk. He wheezed heavily. "He looks like...that kid."
The other cops all looked at Jack scrutinizingly and exchanged nods.
A cop car had pulled up behind the one which had blocked Jack, and the driver honked the horn. "Come on, let's go!"
Adam came closer and addressed Jack. "You going to run again?"
Jack remained silent, wondering what would happen now. He still didn't have a way to call Anthony. He was fucked. He didn't even have a way to call Teresa. Jack was sure as hell he would run again if given the opportunity.
"No," Jack lied easily.
"He's lying," the driver from the car snapped instantly.
Adam shrugged and turning Jack around, cuffed his wrists in front of him.
The fat one and Adam escorted Jack inside the police department building and then into a brightly lit interrogation room. It wasn't as unpleasant as Jack had imagined; it just looked like a low-budget conference room. Jack sat in the chair Adam directed him to and sank down. Adam left, easing the door shut. It was totally quiet. Well, except for a clock on the wall. It had an abnormally loud ticking sound. Jack could have been holding it to his ear. There was nothing soft in the room either. Even his own chair didn't even have a patch of leather for comfort. Everything was rough surfaces and hard lines. Maybe this room wasn't so great. After a while Jack noticed there was no heat on in this room either. It was deliberately kept cold to add discomfort.
Jack was able to keep track of how long he was in that room. About thirty-eight minutes before two people showed up. Jack was actually colder now than when he was outside. Jack's back was to the door and it was the same man who had been urging the boy, Bruce, to answer his questions. The other cop was the same one who had called him a liar.
The first one, sat down across from Jack and put a file on the table. "I'm Lieutenant Gordon. This is Deputy Chief Schroeder." Schroeder handed Gordon something and Gordon put it on the table. It was Jack's wallet. Gordon opened it up and said, "So, may I call you Jack?"
Jack looked at his wallet, then picked it up. "Thanks," he muttered mockingly, and put it into his right side pocket.
"Security at the Oberon Corporation building showed us video camera footage of three men assaulting you. It's good to see you're doing okay."
Jack made no response. This man looked too kind to be a cop. He must have been around his mid-thirties. But his eyes were tired and old. He had a brown moustache with flecks of white and light brown hair with several strands of gray. He let his job affect him too much. He took on the pain of others like his own. Jack almost found it admirable that anyone would care so much, but then again it was decidedly pathetic.
Gordon didn't look disappointed by Jack's silence. "Schroeder, could you get us a couple of coffees? It's freezing in here. Tell them to turn the heat on, if you don't mind."
Schroeder smiled and looked pointedly at Jack. "It's broken."
When the cop left, Gordon sighed. "The only survivor told us you didn't do anything. So you're safe. If you help us identify the others and locate them, no charges will be pressed against you."
Jack was quiet. Gordon opened up the file - which was surprisingly thick - and pulled out copies of the composite sketches. He lined them up on the table in front of Jack.
"We know you were there. Along with the victim's description, this drawing, and the video, we know you were there. You're only sixteen. Don't screw up your life."
Jack set his jaw and hardened his eyes. As far as Jack knew, his life couldn't get much worse.
Schroeder opened up the door and walked in with the coffees. He put them down. Jack didn't dare touch the coffee. He didn't trust Schroeder at all. Gordon, on the other hand took a careful sip of the hot liquid.
Jack's eyes wandered to the drawing of Joe. He wondered how the kid had remembered their faces so well, especially since it was so dark that night. Jack remembered how Joe had broken his nose, and how the blood had pooled inside his throat. Thinking about it made Jack feel a little uneasy. At least blood didn't make him feel sick enough to vomit anymore. Maybe he'd finally seen enough of it to get used to it.
Gordon tapped Joe's drawing. "He's the one that hit you."
Jack nodded.
"You probably deserved it," the other cop shrugged.
Gordon heaved a sigh of exhasperation and cast his eyes towards the ceiling.
Jack looked to his left and glared at Schroeder. His skin was a leathery red and his moustache was trimmed and coarse. He looked like the sort of men who were full of patriotic bravado, but in the end were just alcoholics that beat on their wives. And he definitely acted like one of those type of men. He was about forty-five years old.
"Did it hurt?" Schroeder asked. "Did you cry like a bitch?"
"That's enough!" Gordon snapped, putting out a hand to silence him.
"No."
"You said you'd let me handle this."
"I can't watch anymore. You're fucking useless at this, Gordon. Let a professional do his job."
Jack noticed that Schroeder was of higher stature than Gordon within the police department, and Gordon shook his head and got off the chair. Schroeder smirked and changed the lighting in the room to make it dimmer. There was a yellow lightbulb in the center of the ceiling and he switched it on, turning off everything else. The room turned from neutral to ugly.
Shroeder picked up the file like it was routine and flicked it open. "Let's see here. This is a pretty big rap sheet, Boy. Shit! November thirteenth, armed robbery. Assailant described as a teenaged white male, approximately sixteen to eighteen years of age, with long, light colored hair. About five-feet and ten inches tall. Wearing a black winter hat and heavy black men's jacket.
He flipped a page. "November seventeenth, armed assault and robbery. Assailant described as a white male in his upper teens. Long hair, heavy black jacket, armed with a switchblade." He turned three more pages, reading key words out of the reports. "November eighteenth, twentieth, and twenty-second, assault and petty theft, mix-and-match. Assailant described as a young white male, long hair, about six feet tall. Armed with a knife.
"It gets a little more serious here." Schroeder tapped the file as he read on. "November 28th, accomplice, double-homicide, larceny, and leaving the scene of a crime. Accomplice described as a young white male, about six feet tall, long hair. Wearing a thick black jacket, jeans and sneakers. Armed with a pistol." Schroeder closed the file and looked at Jack. "Excuses?"
Jack just sat there. That was a long rap sheet. Jack knew it was even longer. Some people probably just didn't report it to the police. Some people he had mugged had only relinquished small amounts of cash because that's all they had. Jack finally forced himself to relax and cleared his throat. He ran his right hand through his hair, bringing his left hand up too because they were both cuffed together. "You don't even know if all that is me."
"All I need are for the people to come here and identify you. All of them saw your face. Bruce Wayne saw you." Schroeder picked up Jack's drawing. "This is you."
Jack studied the drawing and remarked again silently to himself how accurate the drawing was. It was like that kid could see at night. Jack felt almost like he was looking into a mirror. Finally he tore his eyes away from the drawing and gave Schroeder a pointed glance. "I didn't do anything."
Schroeder put the picture down. "Well, you're certainly right about that. That's why you have a chance to walk away. If you cooperate." He tapped the other three pictures. "Who are these men?"
Jack issued an abrupt laugh. "If I tell you, they'll kill me. Deputy Chief? Don't you have to be smart to get that position?"
Schroeder nodded and smiled. "That's right." He picked up the file and opened it up. "Anyway, like I was saying, you have a chance to walk away. From everything."
"I'm not telling you anything. They'll kill me."
Schroeder nodded like he knew Jack was going to change his mind. "Do you know what the maximum sentence is for kidnapping?"
Jack glanced at Gordon. He looked serious and almost mournful, with his eyes urging Jack to do the right thing.
Jack remained stoic and shook his head a little. "No."
"Let me try something else. Do you know what the maximum sentence is for one homicide? Two?"
Jack looked down at the drawings. "No."
Schroeder opened up the file and pulled out what looked like enlarged photographs. He brushed aside the composite sketches and spread out the photos. Jack looked away involuntarily at the sudden flashes of mangled flesh and enormous blood stains. His heart-rate sped up and so did his breathing. He swallowed and looked down at the pictures, bracing himself this time for details. They were extremely high-definition photographs, almost looking like the real corpses of his father and the woman who had saved his life. Pulps of skin and matter dotted the walls and lamp shades and pillows, and everywhere else was blood spatter or pools of blood. His father's face was unrecognizable. His eyes were half-closed and only the whites could be seen. The woman's face was emotionless, and her eyes were closed. She had died slowly, her chest soaked in blood as she suffocated.
After a long time of studying the pictures, even though Jack was not finished, Schroeder scooped them up and placed them back inside the file. He carried on nonchalantly, as though he had never stopped talking. "Listen you piece of shit, no one gives a rat's ass about your fucking father. But the Waynes are legend around here. The people want someone's ass for it. And it's not going to be mine." He pulled out the drawings again and placed them on the table. "So tell me. Who are these men?"
