Note: The previous chapter 10 is now chapter 11. A reader gave me an idea and I went with it. :)
Two days later:
Batman had thought about Bat-climbing his way into Michael Wickers' bedroom and beating the crap out of him. Then he had thought about going to the gym where the gymnast trained and beating him to a pulp there. After that, he had briefly pondered just grabbing the boy and taking him to the circus grounds, where he would promptly shatter his kneecaps and leave him lying in the dirt and panting in pain.
But, he also wanted Michael to go to jail. And the easiest way to do that was to get him to admit that he was guilty. So, Batman had decided to go over to the Wickers' house during the day. He was going to confront the young man and force out a confession. Michael's mother had heard her sons talking about hurting Dick; he would work on her, too. She seemed like she would be easier to bend.
And then there was Dirk. He was just a kid – ten years old, in fact – and had started the whole mess. However, a ten-year-old can't go to jail and he hadn't really done anything horrible enough to send him to the detention center. Kids were, unfortunately, sometimes bullied at school and that's what Dirk had done to Dick. 'Just' bullied him.
So now here he was, standing at the front door of Wickers Hall and waiting for someone to answer the ring of the doorbell.
"Mr. Wayne, what a lovely surprise!" Mrs. Wickers gushed as she opened the door. "Would you like to come in?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Wickers," Bruce replied cordially but with just the right amount of irritation lacing his voice.
"Oh, dear, Mr. Wayne, it's Judith, please."
"Okay, Judith, thank you," Bruce responded as he stepped over the threshold, declining to offer her the same token of respect.
"Won't you come into the sitting room? Marcus and I were just about to have afternoon refreshments. Would you like lemonade?" she asked as she led him across the hall and into the brightly lit sitting room.
"No, thank you, I'm not here on a social call."
"Oh, well, how can I help you then? Please, have a seat."
Bruce nodded and sat down then said, "May I speak with both you and your husband?"
"Of course, Mr. Wayne, I'll be just a moment."
She went into the hall and called, "Marcus, dear, Bruce Wayne is here to see us."
A deep voice answered but Bruce didn't catch the words.
"No, Marcus, I don't know. Will you just come in here?!"
Her voice was rather demanding now, and Bruce thought that maybe she would be tougher to bend than Batman had originally thought.
Five seconds later, Judith returned. She had her hand wrapped around her husband's arm and was basically pulling him into the room. Marcus seemed very reluctant but plastered a smile on his face when Bruce stood up to greet him.
"Bruce," he nodded, reaching his hand out.
"Marcus," the millionaire nearly growled, firmly grasping the man's hand for a brief moment.
"What can we do for you, Bruce?"
"I don't know if you're aware of this, Marcus, but my ward, Dick Grayson, is in the hospital," Bruce stated as they all sat down.
"Oh, I didn't know that, is he okay?"
"He will be, but it will take a while."
"What happened to the poor dear?" Judith questioned anxiously. "Dirk is always talking about him; they're such good friends."
She gave a nervous smile and began twisting her hands in her lap. Bruce nearly rolled his eyes and, internally, Batman smirked. Perhaps she would be easy to bend. But first he wanted to talk to Michael. In front of the boy's parents. And, to his luck, the gymnast walked in at that very moment.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you had a guest. Mom, can I speak to you for a minute? Sorry for the interruption, Mr. Wayne."
"For heaven's sake, Michael, can't it wait?" Judith sighed, sounding slightly annoyed. "Mr. Wayne is here to talk to us and his time is very valuable."
"Actually," Bruce jumped in, "I was hoping I could talk to Michael, as well."
"Is something wrong, Mr. Wayne?" Michael asked uneasily.
"Michael, come sit down, don't be rude to our guest."
Bruce suddenly realized he was glaring at the boy. He relaxed his face but unconsciously clenched the arms of the chair on which he was sitting. Michael sat down by his mother and instantly became very interested in the sea-green carpet.
"Michael, do you know anything about what happened to my ward a few days ago?"
"Wait just a minute, Bruce!" Marcus yelled as he jumped to his feet. "Are you saying my boy had something to do with the fact that your boy is in the hospital?!"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that," Bruce responded calmly.
With a quick nod, Marcus took a deep breath and sat back down.
"I gave him a ride home," Michael stated, glancing from his mother to Bruce. "I don't know what happened after that. Dirk told me he hasn't seen him since that day. Why is he in the hospital?"
Ignoring the question, Bruce continued, "Did you drop him off somewhere? My butler, Alfred, never mentioned seeing a car in the driveway."
"Oh, um, he…" Michael stalled and then recovered, "…he asked to be let off by the gate. He said he wanted to have some time alone because he was missing his parents."
"Hmmmm," Bruce murmured. "So you know nothing about the circus grounds?"
"Why would he know anything about the circus grounds, Mr. Wayne?" Judith demanded. "I really don't like your tone."
He ignored her and stated, "Do you happen to have a tire iron in your car, Michael?"
All his attention was focused on the gymnast, his body language and the minute changes happening in his expression.
"You're not implying anymore, Bruce," Marcus growled. "This sounds more like an accusation."
"Well, that's what happens when a young boy identifies someone as his attacker."
"Michael?!" Judith gasped, staring at her son in disbelief.
Marcus, however, burst out laughing.
"You really think Michael would jeopardize his chance at going to the Olympics by attacking someone? You're an intelligent man, Bruce. I would like to know why your ward is pointing his finger at my son."
"He's jealous, probably."
Dirk suddenly entered the room. Michael glanced at his younger brother and slowly shook his head. Bruce, of course, noticed.
"I invited him to meet Michael and you should have seen his face. Dick, apparently, worships my brother and his abilities. I tried to let him know when the bus was leaving but he totally ignored me. Michael was practically forced to give him a ride after that. And Dick couldn't stop talking about how he wished he was as good as Michael and how his parents were so inspired by Michael's talent.
When we talked about Nationals and the Olympics, Dick begged us to find a way to allow him to go. We said it was impossible and he got upset. He growled something about people letting him down and things never going his way. I've never seen him like that: his eyes full of anger and his fists clenched and his body shaking with fury or something."
The boy was a good liar, Bruce had to acknowledge that. But, he knew Dick better than anyone else in this room and he had never seen anger in his ward's eyes. Disappointment, yes. Frustration, misery, sorrow, confusion and fear, yes. But never true anger.
"Anyway, we dropped him off and he didn't even say goodbye or 'thanks for the ride' or anything! He just slammed the car door and left!"
"And where did you drop him off, Dirk?" Bruce inquired, his voice still calm but ready to burst into fury.
"At the…"
"Gate, Mr. Wayne, like I told you," Michael swiftly interrupted.
"Uh, yeah, the gate."
"So, the gate was open, then?" Bruce asked nonchalantly.
"Um, he said he could climb over; that you wouldn't mind," Dirk answered nervously.
"Was it the front gate, the back gate or the gate leading to the garage?"
Michael saw the trap but didn't know how to get around it. He had never been to Wayne Manor. Why would someone have a gate leading to the garage?!
"Oh, you had some new gates installed, Bruce?" Marcus asked sharply. "Last time I was there you only had the one."
"Are you saying my boys are lying?!" Judith demanded shrilly. "Why, I never…here you are, a guest in our house, accusing my boys of making trouble!"
Marcus suddenly stood up.
"I think you should leave, Bruce," he said quietly, his tone full of fury. "Before something happens to either of us."
"Are you threatening me, Marcus?" Bruce replied, his voice composed even as rage flashed through his deep-blue eyes.
The silence was heavy and awkward. Bruce waited, albeit impatiently, for someone to break. He noticed Dirk slowly backing away but chose to let the boy go. Marcus had his jaw clenched, Judith was fretfully wringing her hands and Michael was apparently contemplating the meaning of the cracks in the fireplace.
"What did he say I did?" Michael suddenly demanded, turning his now-angry gaze to Bruce.
"That you beat him with a tire iron," Bruce replied evenly.
Judith gasped in dismay and Marcus widened his eyes in disbelief.
"You admitted giving him a ride, but you lied about everything else, as did your brother," Bruce continued. "Dick would have no reason to climb over the gate because it is always open. And he's not the jealous type but Dirk wouldn't know that because they aren't friends, Judith."
The sharp emphasis on her name startled Judith and tears began leaking out of her eyes.
"What have you done, Michael?" she whispered as she dropped her face into her hands.
"Mom, I didn't do anything," Michael assured her, keeping his eyes on Bruce. "Whatever the kid said, he's lying."
"Then you won't mind showing me your tire iron," Bruce commented as he stood up. "I'm sure you keep one in your car for emergencies, as everyone does."
"Are you going to look for blood or something, Mr. Wayne?" Michael snapped.
"Or something," Bruce confirmed, struggling to remain calm even as Batman demanded that he take the boy down. "You see, the dirt at the circus grounds has a unique characteristic. So unique, in fact, that it can be identified without the police even needing to have it tested at a lab."
"Bruce, do you have a search warrant? Or a policeman here with you with a search warrant?" Marcus demanded. "Because if you don't, you are now trespassing and I suggest you leave before I call the police."
"I've never even been to the circus grounds!" Michael shouted. "Your kid is a brat who is always bullying my little brother but that doesn't mean I did anything to him!"
Batman nearly tackled the boy when he said that. Bruce took a step forward, his blood boiling with rage, but somehow forced himself to stop. He still didn't have a concrete confession, which he needed so that it wouldn't be Dick's word against the matching stories of the Wickers brothers.
"I see," Bruce stated, allowing an obviously incredulous tone to envelope the words.
The faces of both Marcus and Michael were now red with fury. Marcus raised a shaking hand and pointed to the front door. His other hand was clenched in a fist and Bruce could tell it was ready to fly at him.
"Be careful, Marcus," he commanded darkly. "You don't want assault on your record as well. It's bad enough that your talented gymnast will be going to jail. I doubt you'll be going to the Olympics, or even Nationals, anytime in the future," Bruce remarked dangerously as his gaze – nearing the level of a Bat-glare – shifted to Michael.
"You won't find anything on my tire iron because I never used it on your kid!" the gymnast shouted, refusing to back down. "Besides, knees don't bleed unless skin is torn off!"
"Who said anything about knees?" Bruce prodded brusquely, a glint of satisfaction sprinting through his eyes.
"You did, Mr. Wayne!" Judith declared, standing up and moving protectively in front of her older son.
"No," Bruce declared harshly, "I said nothing about any body parts. In case you don't remember, I said, 'beat him with a tire iron.' There is no way for your boy to know that Dick's knees were injured unless he was the one who did it."
"No, you definitely said knees," Judith declared defiantly. "Now get out of our house before I call the police!"
"They're already here, Mrs. Wickers."
"They won't believe you. It's your word against the three of us," Marcus growled.
"Unless," Bruce smiled grimly, "I happen to be wearing a wire."
He unbuttoned his suit jacket, reached inside the right edge and pulled out a tiny microphone attached to a thin, black cable.
"Oh, look, I am!" he stated, satisfaction evident in the proclamation.
Just then Commissioner Gordon and Chief O'Hara walked in the front door.
"Michael Wickers, you're under arrest for assault and battery of a minor."
"He's nine, Commissioner," Bruce muttered under his breath. "He's more than just a minor," he stated softly, repeating the words he had yelled in the principal's office only a week and a half ago.
Swiftly removing the wire, he handed it to Chief O'Hara. Placing a hand on the man's shoulder, Bruce whispered, "Don't worry, I'm kicking myself out this time."
The chief chuckled awkwardly and watched the millionaire stride away.
"Sure and he's protective of that boy, even though the youngster is just his ward," the man murmured approvingly.
"Commissioner, please!" Marcus nearly begged. "He's Olympic bound!"
"That doesn't exempt him from prison, Mr. Wickers."
"Prison!" Judith cried and burst into tears.
"I can't…he wasn't supposed…I didn't…" Michael stuttered, attempting to find a way out of the situation.
"Enough, Michael," Marcus snapped. "Accept the consequences like a man. You practically confessed already. I didn't know I had an idiot for a son."
"This is the stupidest thing you've done since you beat up those murd…" Judith trailed off.
"Begorrah!" Chief O'Hara exclaimed in disbelief. "Apparently, we've been lookin' for you for a while, then. Guess we're arrestin' you for attempted murder, too."
Snapping a pair of handcuffs around Michael's wrists, the chief led him out the door and shoved him into the back of the police cruiser. Dirk, standing just outside the door, watched with wide eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, turning and fleeing up the stairs to his room.
That night – Police Headquarters holding cell:
"Uh, Batman, sir, I can't allow you to go in there. Commissioner Gordon specifically mentioned your name."
Batman turned on the police officer, glaring darkly.
"Tell the commissioner that I don't care what he thinks right now. I'm talking to the man, whether you let me in or not."
Not wanting the cell door to be torn off its hinges, the officer reluctantly used his key on the lock.
"Five minutes, Batman," he stammered nervously. "I don't want to lose my job."
"Close the door and lock it," the hero demanded coldly. "We need to talk alone. Go get a snack or a drink or something."
The officer did as he was told. Michael Wickers backed up against the far wall, fear in his eyes. Batman strode toward him, hands clenched and entire body tense with fury. Placing his hands on the wall on either side of the criminal, Batman leaned down until his face was only three inches from that of the boy
"You are lucky," he growled, "that you are here instead of at the State Pen right now."
Michael was trembling, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to think of something to say.
"When rumors start there, they spread like wildfire. Nobody cares whether or not they are true. And, with the exception of a few villains, nobody likes it when crimes are committed against children. You should be scared, Wickers. No, not just scared, terrified. Because I know that, somehow, a rumor will begin before you even arrive.
Even if they can't prove the attempted murder, assault and battery of a minor is at least eighteen months. For you, however, it will probably be longer, since both Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson will be testifying against you. The boy has an excellent memory, especially when something traumatic happens to him.
Just so you are aware of your continued luck, I wanted to take you down in a – shall we say – harsher manner, but Bruce Wayne convinced me to allow you to talk yourself into a corner. Luck doesn't last for long, Wickers. We will be having a very different conversation in the near future, as soon as you are settled in your new quarters at the State Pen. I respect Commissioner Gordon too much to do it here."
Whirling around, the Caped Crusader hit the metal bars of the door. The policeman had just returned from his 'errand'. He quickly unlocked the door and checked on the prisoner. Michael was gasping and his trembling arms were wrapped around his torso. But the officer knew what a 'conversation' with Batman looked like; the boy was fine.
For now.
That was the officer's thought as he locked the cell door and watched the Caped Crusader stride away.