Note: Thanks for the comments, LlCS and Rollerparty!

One month later:

Joker had escaped, then Riddler, then Penguin and Mad Hatter together, and then Joker again. Batman's top priority had, unfortunately, dropped down the list. The villains were taking up all his time and he still didn't have even the tiniest clue. Until, suddenly, he did.

It was during a normal nightly patrol. Batman had taken out several muggers and prevented two murders. He was in the process of leaving a crime scene when he heard two words: Flying Graysons.

The voices discussing the performers were coming from an open window at the other end of the alley. Batman had never sprinted as quietly as he did at that moment.

"Yeah, said it was the same gun. Don't know if I believe him, though. Seems like it would be pretty hot right now. Been less than a year, right?"

"Where did he stash it for so long? How did he even get away with it?!"

"Apparently Batman wasn't there and everyone else was trying to help the kid. Mason said he just shot and ran. Said nobody followed him. And said he hasn't ever been worried about being caught!"

Batman clenched his jaw, feeling both guilty and angry. The killer wasn't even worried. Well, he – Mason, the man had said – was going to be very worried soon.

The Caped Crusader leapt through the open window, startling the two men inside. One of them sprinted toward the door while the other one fainted out of fear. Rolling his eyes at the latter man, Batman raced toward the former, easily catching up and tackling him.

"What do you want?" the man demanded.

He was on the hard floor, on his stomach with his left cheek crushed against the wood. Batman had him pinned down, his knee on the man's lower back and his hands firmly clasped around the man's wrists.

"You aren't really in a position to demand answers from me," the hero growled. "I, however, am. Who is Mason and where is he?"

"I don't know," the man growled back. "I just heard about it. Logan over there is the one who told me. Ask him."

Whipping out his Bat-cuffs, the Caped Crusader snapped them around the man's wrists and stood up. He strode to the other prone body, knelt down, and slapped him across the face. Hard.

"Wake up!" he commanded.

"Huh, what, who…" the man responded groggily.

"Where is Mason?!"

"Ba…Bat…Bahhh!" the man screamed before passing out again.

"Idiot," the Caped Crusader growled.

He grabbed the can of Bat-awake out of his utility belt and sprayed a very generous amount in Logan's face.

"MASON!" Batman thundered as the man opened his eyes again.

"I didn't do it! I only heard it!" Logan exclaimed. "He was bragging, I didn't even talk to him! Please don't beat me up," he whimpered.

"Then tell me WHERE HE IS!" Batman roared.

"I only know he's a janitor at Wayne Enterprises!"

Batman's eyes widened imperceptibly. The man who had murdered Dick's parents had been right under his nose this entire time?!

"Why did he do it?" the hero snarled.

"I don't know, ask him!" Logan exclaimed again.

Batman raised his arm and Logan, expecting to be hit, yelped, "He works nights! Every night!"

"How do you know?" Batman snapped after glancing at his Bat-watch.

"I work at Sally's place, he's a regular. You…know about her place, right?"

With a short nod, the hero grumbled, "Widow of a mob boss, hangout for potential henchmen and people guilty of unprovable crimes."

Small fish that aren't priorities unless everything else is quiet.

"He's there almost every night. And I heard him bragging about it with my own ears!"

"When?"

"Last night, at Sally's, right before he went to work!"

"You've been helpful," the Caped Crusader stated suspiciously, "if this all proves to be true. If, however, you're trying to throw me off-track by lying, rest assured that I will find you. I don't like it when people lie to me."

"No, it's true, I swear, that's everything I know!"

Without another word, Batman stood up and walked back to the other man. He quickly retrieved his Bat-cuffs off that man's wrists then strode to the window and climbed out. Sprinting again, he flew through the alley and back to the Batmobile, where he climbed in and headed for Wayne Enterprises.

Wayne Enterprises – twenty minutes later:

The guard at the front desk had just completed his rounds for the second time when Batman showed up. Without hesitation, the man unlocked and opened the door.

"I need to see Mason, the janitor," the Caped Crusader snapped.

Nodding, the guard quickly typed something then stared at the screen in surprise.

"Scheduled to work but called in sick," the man reported. "He's never called in sick!"

"How long has he been working here?"

"I'd say nigh on ten years now."

"Has he ever been in any trouble?"

"Not that I know of, Batman. Is he now?"

"I just want to talk to him. Address," the hero commanded.

"He moves around a lot, hasn't updated his address in a while, though. I'm not supposed to give this information but you're Batman, so…"

"I understand, just tell me!" he demanded impatiently.

"Last known is 1232 Bakers Lane, down by Crime Alley. Don't know why, seems like a straight-laced guy. But, houses aren't cheap so…"

The guard trailed off, realizing that Batman was already gone.

1232 Bakers Lane – fifteen minutes later:

"Mason Lipkins?"

The old woman who opened the door for Batman was emphatically shaking her head.

"He hasn't lived here for over seven months now. Paid rent on time, every time, one of the best renters I've had. And he has a good job at Wayne Enterprises. I don't know why he moved. I also don't know why you're standing at my front door at two in the morning asking about him! Can't help, sorry!"

She practically slammed the door shut before Batman could reply.

"Now what?" he grumbled quietly. "I'm back to where I started. At least I know the man's name: Mason Lipkins."

Two weeks later:

He had staked out Wayne Enterprises almost every night for two weeks. But the only people Batman saw were the twenty security guards and eighteen janitors – none of which had been identified as Mason Lipkins.

The last person to arrive, without fail, was the guard at the front desk. His daytime counterpart always left the building with a frown on his face. Batman had caught up to him one night and all the man had done was complain about the night guard's continual tardiness.

However, two sentences had captured the Caped Crusader's attention:

"He's been doing it for almost a month! It's weird, because for fifteen years he's been obsessed with punctuality and now he's just…not."

It was a Friday, and Batman decided it was time to talk to the tardy guard as soon as he arrived. But…he never did. A different man, who was on time, took over the front desk. Batman, standing in the shadows by the entrance, was puzzled.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and Batman felt the familiar trail of fire that meant he had been grazed by a bullet. It flew across his left shoulder and, before he could react, a second one landed squarely in his left tricep. Whirling toward the sound of the gun, Batman was shocked to see the normally-tardy night guard holding a fully-automatic machine pistol.

"I could have kept going and you'd be dead right now. But, I hear you've been looking for me and I want to know why."

Batman was both stunned and furious. He had allowed himself to be caught off-guard, too consumed by his thoughts to be aware of the danger behind him. And the man was right; he should be dead right now.

"You're speechless," the man commented. "I knew you weren't the energetic, chatty type but I didn't know you could be rendered speechless."

"Mason Lipkins," the Caped Crusader growled.

"At your service," the man said with a mock bow. "Now," he frowned, "what do you want with me?"

"The Flying Graysons."

"Who?" Mason asked with a smirk.

"You killed them."

"So what if I did, not that I'm saying I did. Why does that matter to you?"

"You're a criminal, I'm a crime-fighter."

"Hmmmm, am I, though?"

"You just shot a duly-deputized agent of the law. So, yes, you are," Batman retorted furiously.

He suddenly remembered that there was a bullet in his arm. Without removing his eyes from Mason's face, the Caped Crusader pulled the roll of Bat-wrap out of his utility belt. Quickly, he wrapped the wound and returned the Bat-wrap to its pocket.

"Well, I suppose that's true. But, why does that make you think I killed those misfits from the circus?"

"I have my reasons."

"Whatever those reasons are, they're wrong. I may or may not have supplied the gun," he twirled his weapon around his hand before pointing it at Batman again, "but I didn't do the shooting."

"Then who?" the hero demanded. "Tell me and I won't beat you to pieces before taking you to Police Headquarters."

"Are you really the one that should be making threats?" Mason countered calmly. "I've got a fully-automatic Glock 18 pointed at your chest. At least one of the thirty bullets will kill you so you're at a definite disadvantage."

"Not anymore."

Batman, as he had returned the Bat-wrap to his utility belt, had unobtrusively snatched a Bat-a-rang. The weapon was now flying through the air. Before Mason could pull the trigger, the gun was ripped from his hand. As it clattered to the ground, the Caped Crusader – having also grabbed his Bat-laser – aimed and fired. The Glock exploded and Mason, who was trying to stop the blood leaking from his injured hand, turned around and attempted to flee.

Batman immediately tackled him. He flipped the criminal over and put his hands on the man's shoulders, pushing them onto the hard asphalt of the street.

"WHO. KILLED. THEM."

It was a demand, not a question, and suddenly Mason was terrified for his life.

"I only…only sup…supplied the…the gun," he stammered.

"That's not what I need," Batman replied darkly. "And I've been informed that Mason 'shot and ran', like the cowardly rat that you are."

"Whoever gave you that information is wrong! I said 'he' shot and ran! The guy said his name was Mack!"

"Where can I find him?"

"Ask the kid. He sees him every day."

"What kid?" Batman growled, desperately hoping that he was wrong about the name that had instantly jumped into his mind.

"The kid, their kid, I don't know his name!"

"Who is 'their'?"

"The circus…the ones Mack shot at. Grayson!"

"Of course," Batman breathed angrily.

"What?"

Of course the person who knew the killer would be the same person whose parents had died because of that killer. How was he going to ask Dick about this?!

Mason was now quietly pleading for leniency.

"Right," Batman snapped sarcastically. "I'm going to let you go after you admitted to both supplying the gun that led to a murder and shot me!"

Yanking the man to his feet, the Caped Crusader whipped out his Bat-cuffs and slapped them around Mason's wrists. A punch to the chest and an uppercut later, Batman dragged the now-unconscious man to the front door of Wayne Enterprises. The new guard was surprised to see the hero but, upon hearing the Caped Crusader's story, he agreed to keep Mason until the police arrived to pick him up.

Batman strode to the Batmobile, climbed in and headed home. He explained what he had learned to Alfred while the butler attended to his wounds.

"I've never heard the name 'Mack', Master Batman. If Master Dick knows him, the man is obviously not important enough for us to know about."

"I'm not looking forward to this conversation," Batman sighed as he removed his cowl. "How am I going to get the information without Dick figuring out why I'm asking?"

"You'll find a way, sir. You always do."

The next day:

Bruce had been trying to find a way to bring up the subject of Mack. But, since Dick had never even mentioned the name, there was no logical reason for Bruce to pose a question about him. However, Batman needed the information if he was going to bring the killer to justice.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" Dick asked.

There were in the living room, where Bruce was pretending to read a book while Dick was playing Solitaire with a new deck of cards.

"Seriously," the boy continued, "you haven't turned the page since you opened the book. And that was ten minutes ago."

"How is everything at school, chum?"

"Great, but that's not why you're staring at me. You're not glaring, which means you're not worried. You keep sighing, which means you feel like we have to talk about something that could be important but you don't really want to. And you're staring, not just glancing over once in a while. That means you want me to somehow read your mind and start the conversation for you."

Dirk smirked when Bruce's eyes widened in astonishment. The boy, after less than a year, could read the man's body language and expressions perfectly!

"How do you do that?" Bruce asked.

Shrugging, Dick replied, "I'm observant. But that doesn't mean I can read your mind. You have to at least tell me the topic if you want to discuss something."

"Right. So, anything new at school? Teachers, students, friends, bullies, uh, anything?"

"Nope, nope, nope, thankfully nope and I don't know what you mean by 'anything' because that's a very vague way to put it. I passed out of my math book…that's new!"

"Again?!" Bruce exclaimed, pride evident in his tone. "That's the second one, right?"

"Yep!" Dick replied happily. "They won't let me start the sixth grade one, though, so my teacher is just giving me a bunch of worksheets and packets. It's just busy work."

"Why won't they let you move on?"

"Mr. Mack doesn't have time to tutor me. I guess lots of kids in fourth and fifth grade need help with math. But if they would at least let me try it, maybe I wouldn't need tutoring."

"Mr. Mack is a tutor?"

"Not just 'a' tutor, THE tutor. He's a genius! And he was an acrobat but decided to go into teaching instead of traveling around in a circus. He showed me some stuff on the rope in PE; he's really good!"

So, Mack was a former acrobat. Batman now had several plausible motives for the murder. First, the man wanted to fly but, for some reason, couldn't. Second, he couldn't cut it in a circus so was jealous of any performers. Third, he was specifically jealous of the Flying Graysons. Fourth, he had also been an aerialist but the Flying Graysons had beaten him at the audition for Haly's Circus.

"Better than you?" Bruce asked.

"Well, yeah, because I'm really bad at the rope. But that's all he showed me so I don't know about anything else."

Were your parents good at the rope?

That was Batman's thought, but he wasn't going to ask it. Dick didn't need to be reminded of something like that. But, the boy answered the unasked question anyway.

"Mom and Dad were good at that, too. I wonder if they ever met."

"Has he ever talked about being in a circus?"

"Not to me, but I overheard him telling Dirk that he had dreamed about it when he was growing up. They were talking about Michael," Dick shuddered at the name, "and his talents."

"Interesting," Bruce murmured.

"Why?" Dick asked quizzically.

"Uh, I just like to know who you interact with at school," Bruce quickly responded. "After what happened…" he trailed off, mentally calling himself an idiot for mentioning that particular subject.

"Are you not over it?" Dick asked. "Do you hate him?"

"No, I mean, yes, of course I'm over it. And, yes, I ha…well, really dislike him."

"Oh."

Oh? That's all you have to say?!

"Are you?" Bruce asked softly, slightly concerned with the one-word answer.

"Um, yeah, of course!" Dick echoed his guardian's words.

"It's okay to not be over it, chum. You went through a lot."

Dick chewed his bottom lip for a moment, an indication that he had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

"It was a long time ago, so it's no big deal. I mean, it's not like he crippled me or killed me or anything really drastic, right? Just some bruises and broken…"

This time it was the nine-year-old who trailed off. The silence was awkward and slightly tense. Bruce was trying to figure out what to say and Dick was struggling to keep himself from breaking down.

"It's over, I'm done!" the boy suddenly yelled. "This is stupid and I don't want to talk about it or him ever again. So just…just shut up!"

Bruce widened his eyes in surprise. Dick had never spoken to him like this. And he had certainly never told him to shut up.

Dick noticed the expression and violently shook his head.

"Not you!" he continued shouting. "Not you, of course not you! He's always in here," Dick jammed a finger at his head, "and I can't…I don't know how to get rid of him! It's stupid, this whole thing is stupid, I can't do it anymore, maybe I should have just died with them!"

"Nononono, Dick, you don't mean that," Bruce stated, attempting to remain calm. "I can help…there must be something I can do! I can find you a counselor, or…"

"I'm sorry," Dick softly interrupted. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"I don't care about that, kiddo. If it helps, do it. You're upset and frustrated and angry. I go beat things up when that happens to me. Let's go to the gym."

"Okay," Dick agreed, his face brightening a little. "I'm going to beat him to a pulp, like Batman does!"

"Um, yeah, but only because it's just a punching dummy."

"But Batman does it to real people."

"He…shouldn't," Bruce admitted. "I, um, he's going to work on that."

Dick actually laughed before stating, "No, he's not!"

They were now in the gym. Dick, without hesitation, ran at one of the punching dummies and began pummeling it. Three and a half minutes later, Bruce was staring at an armless dummy with a hole in its torso.

"You've got some power, kiddo," he commented with a chuckle.

"Oh, sorry!" a slightly-out-of-breath Dick replied. "I didn't…I wasn't paying attention! Do you think Alfred will teach me how to fix it?"

"No need, chum, we have a lot more."

"I feel better."

"Good. You can come do this anytime you want."

Bruce didn't know it, but Dick took the word 'anytime' very literally. The next night Bruce, after returning from patrol, found his ward in the gym. It was two in the morning and one dummy was already lying broken on the floor while a second one had small fists slamming into its torso.

"Dick, time for bed," Bruce sighed. "I meant anytime during the day. You can't be down here when you're supposed to be sleeping."

"Okay, sorry," Dick replied.

He raced out of the gym and was in bed before Bruce even made it up the stairs. That night there was no screaming or crying and the boy didn't look even remotely tired when he came down for breakfast.