Now...
Police Chief Claude Bellisarius strode through the door to the briefing room, his recently-acquired limp barely visible. Several of the more experienced officers exchanged knowing, apprehensive glances - the chief hadn't had enough coffee this morning and he was crabby. Claude Bellisarius would have agreed wholeheartedly were he in a better mood. Then again, if he was in a better mood he wouldn't need a coffee for another couple of hours, and would not, therefore, have been at all crabby.
Some days you just can't win. Bellisarius knew it would be one of those days. He also knew that the briefing had better be short enough for him to get his caffeine within the next ten minutes, or he wouldn't be able to control himself. Woe betide the first smart-ass this morning, he thought. He stepped up to the front of the room. He was a big man, not fat, just...big. And tall. His presence was all the more imposing for it, owing not a little to his craggy features.
"This had better be quick, because I have had only one cup of coffee this morning, and that is not good news for anyone who wants to be home before eleven this evening, so shut your mouths and listen up." The city's finest shut their mouths and listened.
"First, the murder of Louis Strack. As you know, he was one of our most prominent and successful businessmen. I want leads on his killer, and I want them now. I have assigned the case top priority. Turlon, Rainier, you've been given that one, but all of you keep your ears and eyes open, and give them whatever help they need.
"Second, prostitution." An uneasy rustling spread through the room. This was the precinct's least favourite subject. There was no effective way to bring an end to this particular problem. Drug-dealing, robbery, even murder, were all easier to deal with. You find somebody in possession of drugs or stolen property, you book 'em. If you get the dealer themselves or the actual thief and not the fence, well, it's your lucky day. You apprehend someone who fits the murder suspect bill, who has no alibi, the murder weapon and a guilty conscience, you get a commendation - case closed. But prostitution? You can't arrest someone for being in possession of provocative clothing. Loitering on street corners isn't an offense as such - all you can do is tell them to move on. Unless they're actively soliciting, there's nothing you can do. A thorny problem indeed. Bellisarius continued his briefing.
"Two young...ladies...were arrested for soliciting last night on the corner of Mason and Brunell. That's outside the red light district, gentlemen. Outside. They're getting braver and venturing further and further out of their usual sphere of influence. There is very little we can do except be more thorough on our patrols." Bellisarius looked pointedly around the room at this point. Nobody could meet his gaze.
"Of course, none of this is to interfere with you completing your regular assignments," a chorus of groans rose from the assembled officers, "which can always be made even more tedious, so shut it!" exclaimed Bellisarius in response, raising his voice. "And speaking of assignments, the new ones are right here at the front, so come and get 'em!"
He waited a moment for the officers to rise before clearing his throat for attention. "One last thing." His voice and face were both hard as flint now. The murmuring died down and everyone re-took their seats, preparing for the worst. It was confirmed when Bellisarius started talking - his tone sounded reasonable, and that meant trouble.
"You people are too busy to have seen a newspaper yet, but since I have nothing better to do, I've seen the early copy. And I don't like the look of the report on page five. When you get a spare thirty seconds for lunch, have a look. A police officer attacked a prostitute last night, you see, down by the old industrial district." Bellisarius's voice was getting softer and quieter.
"This city has enough problems with prostitution already, without its police force being accused of desperation to the extent of brutality. I don't know who it was," continued Bellisarius, almost whispering, "but if it was one of you, and I find you out..." Bellisarius's sentence tailed off for a moment, the room silent...
"...I'LL BREAK YOUR HEAD!" he finished, shouting so loud that the windows rattled a bit. The threat echoed around the room, and no one doubted that it was intended in a very literal sense.
"And now I'm going for my coffee, before I end up injuring one of you fools." And with that, he stormed out of the room. No one dared comment on the evil-looking swelling around the chief's right eye, or even the bandage down the left-hand side of his face.
Peyton Westlake, aka The Darkman, sat in the semi-darkness of his destroyed, makeshift laboratory in an old, abandoned industrial plant. He had bought the early edition Herald, wearing one of his many masks, hoping that his appearance the night before in the alleys had not been reported. He hoped in vain. There it was, on page five, the headline declaring the story: SHADOWY SAVIOUR IN BACKSTREET BRAWL. Peyton cursed himself for his stupidity. Why had he got involved? He knew. He had got angry again, his stimulus-deprived brain enhancing his emotional states to extremes of feeling. One day, not too far in the future, he would get himself into some severe trouble. He needed help. Desperately. But to whom could he turn?
A scraping sound snapped him out of his reverie. He jerked his head up. A figure stood in the doorway, framed in the early morning sunlight.
"Peyton?"
Julie? Jules! No, I can't...he thought, but said nothing.
"Peyton, I know you're in here somewhere. Let's talk. Can't we just talk Peyt?" Her voice was shaky. She didn't know he was in here at all. She hoped. Westlake moved back further into the shadows, behind some old pipes, long since empty. Julie's voice was cracking.
"Please, Peyton - I don't care what you look like, I just want you back, I want our life back." She paused. A sob escaped her lips, a gasping, desperate sob. "Do you remember, just before the...explosion? That morning..." another sob. Westlake closed his eyes, balled his fists, rested his head back against the pipes. He knew her grief; he shared it. "You asked me a question Peyt." She seemed to have regained her composure, her voice still a little shaky. "You remember? You..." she broke down again, could barely form the words. "You asked me to marry you." She was sobbing uncontrollably now. "I will! Peyton, just come back and we can get married and we'll find the best plastic surgeon in the land, just..." her words came out in one long string, but she couldn't continue, just stood, crying. She got no answer.
The gutted warehouse was silent. A tear rolled from Westlake's left eye, rested for a moment at the top of his cheek, the only unburnt section of his head, and then fell down his scarred face. When he turned his head, peering around the pipes, the doorway was empty. She had gone. "Julie..." he whispered. He walked a few paces, stumbled, and his legs went weak and gave way. He collapsed to the floor, wracked with guttural, wailing sobs. His whole body shook, his head in his hands. Alone in the debris-filled warehouse, alone in the world: a broken man. When he finally stood and dried his face, the sun was going down.
Todd Murphy knocked on his boss's office door. He'd been in a bad mood a couple of hours ago at the briefing, and Murphy hoped that he'd had a coffee or two by now. That would make the inevitable telling-off just that bit more bearable. That had to be why he had been summoned. Only that would explain why he hadn't received a new assignment.
"Come in!" called Bellisarius from inside. Murphy walked in. "Ah, Murphy. You've been doing well recently. Congratulations on that extortion case. Impressive work."
"Thank you sir. Er..."
Bellisarius chuckled. "No need to be so worried, Murphy, you're not here to get a dressing down." The other man looked puzzled. "You didn't get an assignment at the briefing because I have a special one for you. I didn't want the others to get a look at it."
Murphy let out a sigh of relief, and decided to take a risk on the chief's seeming good humour. "By the way, sir, are you alright?" He gestured at Bellisarius's bruised face.
The man grinned ruefully, but the grin didn't reach his eyes, which were cold and appraising. "Nasty story involving a cat and a door, Murphy," he joked. Murphy grinned back, wary of those eyes, but when he looked again, they had cleared.
Bellisarius slid a file across the desk. "Heard of the 'Darkman', Murphy?"
"Er, yes, sir. The prostitute in that newspaper article claimed that she'd been saved by a tall figure in an old full-length gentleman's coat and a wide-brimmed hat who called himself 'the Darkman'. Is this...?" Murphy indicated the file.
"Yes." Bellisarius stated, simply. "I want you to look into Murphy. I do not want a vigilante on my streets. Look what's happened in Gotham with that bat-man," he pronounced the word with derision, not even as a name, "and the Shadow character in New York back in the 30s. This is my city, Murphy, our city, and I will not have it turned into some kind of playground for one-man-army law-enforcers and the criminal mastermind scum that they attract like flies." Bellisarius was stern and clearly annoyed about the prospect.
Murphy gulped. "Yes sir!"
Bellisarius smiled. "I know you'll do a good job, Murphy. Don't forget, it's your turn to do the night patrol tonight. Remember what I said at the briefing. Dismissed."
The younger man practically leapt for the door. He didn't look back. If he had, he would have seen that the smile on Bellisarius' face had disappeared.
The Darkman stood alone in the twilight-soaked warehouse. Outside, the sky was a darkening blue and the first stars were beginning to show. The whole place was empty, like him. He smiled bitterly at the thought. He took up his bandages, and began to wrap them around his disfigured face. They had been left atop that morning's copy of the Herald. In which was the story of his rescue of the prostitute. When he had finished concealing his head from the world he grabbed up his hat and coat and walked out into the night.
It took him nearly two hours to find the back-alley he had visited last night. Sure enough, the girl he had encountered was there. He moved silently and rapidly up behind her.
"How are you?" he rasped. She screamed and turned jerkily, stumbling backward.
"You! What...what do you want?"
"I need to..." he was cut off by another woman's voice, coming from inside a doorway, and getting closer.
"What do you want now? Didn't you get..." The owner of the voice, a not unattractive woman, dressed relatively modestly considering her occupation, emerged. "Oh," she finished.
"Who were you expecting?" asked Westlake.
"Get inside, Nomi," she said to the girl, who complied. When Nomi had vacated the alley, the woman closed the door. "You are the Darkman." It was not a question. Westlake did not answer.
"I asked first. Now, who were you expecting?" He moved forward menacingly, but the woman was not impressed.
"You may call me Jenny. I...look after...these girls, so you can imagine that I've been around too long to be scared by a freak in a long coat, a hat and some designer bandages." She was about to continue, but found herself pressed back up against the wall. She hadn't even seen him move. Now she was scared. His guttural roar did not do anything to help the situation.
"Answer me!" he shouted in her face. "No more games!"
Her reaction was a defensive one. "Put me the hell down and maybe we'll talk!" she shouted back. He threw her down and turned away with a growl, visibly restraining himself. "I was expecting," she began, calmer now, "the individual that you so kindly drove away last night. Thank you for that, by the way. His name is Bellisarius, Claude Bellisarius."
The change in the Darkman's posture was instant. He swung around to face her, but there was no aggression. Just shock. "The police chief?"
"Yes. Oh, come on, Darkman, or whatever the hell you are, don't be naïve! I'm running a business here, and so is he. Figure it out!"
"You bribe him?" Westlake couldn't remove the surprise from his voice. It had certainly driven away the anger.
"I pay him to stay away me and my girls. We make enough money here - it's a worthwhile investment. If you want to call that a bribe, go ahead." She sighed a frustrated sigh. "Look, this country encourages private enterprise, yes? Well, this is one. We don't exactly come under the jurisdiction of the Inland Revenue, so think of the money I pay Bellisarius as tax." The Darkman was silent. Jenny was getting more and more agitated. "Morality is obsolete, Darkman! Business is all that remains, the acquisition of money. That's the code we live by now."
The Darkman's silence was unnerving her; she was not used to being unnerved. He stood, like a shadow in the moonlight, still and quiet. When he finally spoke she jumped and, realising she had stopped breathing, forced herself to inhale. "Why was he here?" The voice was soft, dangerous.
"He...Some of my girls have been getting too confidant. They have begun moving outside their normal area of operations." She fidgeted. "Part of the deal is that we confine ourselves to a certain area - that's where he benefits. Last night he came to...make a point." Once again, the Darkman was silent. She refused to let him unnerve her again, and took the initiative. "Now you know, what will you do?" Her tone was slightly mocking, but not enough to anger him - she hoped. "You can't confront him, you know. He has fingers in more pies than you know. Most of this city is under his control. Few know it. He was even accepting bribes from Louis Strack, you know. Strack paid him to keep the Force away from his building oper..."
She didn't get to finish her sentence. He was back, and this time with his hand around her throat, his face right in front of hers. All she could see were his eyes between the bandages. They were wide and crazed, murderous. She could see the tiny veins bulging around his pupils. He's lost it completely. Out of control. I'm going to die, and I won't even know why.
"If you're lying I swear I'll kill you!"
Jenny abandoned all dignity and pride. "I'm not, I promise you, he told me all about it, Bellisarius did, I mean, he was so proud of himself, the arrogant fool, trust me, I wouldn't lie to anyone who was about to kill me, I'm not that kind of girl."
She closed her eyes, expecting him to break her neck. But she felt herself falling, and when she opened her eyes she was on the ground in the empty alleyway. The Darkman had gone. It had been many a year since Jenny had lost her cool and gabbled like an idiot. Fear is often followed by anger. The Darkman had made an enemy today.
Murphy really hated patrol duty. It was dull, it was boring. Few criminals were stupid enough to do anything when there was an officer around. Fair enough, it acted as a deterrent - they'd just have to wait until he was gone to indulge in their illegal activities. Patrolmen rarely made an arrest, and Murphy did not like the reality of having to rely on the incompetence of the crooks. So he was quite surprised when he heard the roar. He stopped cold, his flesh prickling, wondering what on earth could have made that noise. It was guttural, and so full of rage that Murphy considered running back to his squad car and just driving away. He'd have felt better with a partner, but his partner had been killed only last week, on the extortion case, and he hadn't been assigned another yet. Instead he checked his sidearm and headed toward the source of the sound. He arrived at the entrance to the alleyway just in time to see a tall figure, dressed in a long dark coat, flash past and disappear into the night. Against his better judgement, Murphy followed.
Westlake didn't see the police officer standing at the entrance to the alleyway, too caught up in new thoughts of revenge. What kind of justice was this? Manufactured and artificial justice, all for the gain of one individual. But it worked. Why was this any worse than any other kind of justice then? The police department may be corrupt, but it achieved the same goals. This way, everyone could benefit. Wasn't this what the new age was all about? Mutual profit? Tolerance?
Confused, he was brought up short by a cry from an alley on his right. He stopped dead and turned. A man, being assaulted by some low-life. The Darkman strode down the alleyway, straining to see the scene in clearer detail. To his surprise, he could. And although he felt the anger again, the rage, he didn't see explosions in front of his eyes, didn't fly out of control. The rational scientist part of his mind wondered why. The rest simply remembered how he too had been accosted by thugs, grabbed in his own laboratory and beaten. The mugger looked up, and Westlake saw the face of Rick, the man who had shot Yakitito, who had stolen his hands. He swung his bony fist at the man, heard the crack with satisfaction, watched as he collapsed screaming, barely realising that his own scream was louder. The man rolled over, clutching his jaw. The face was one he did not recognise. Rick was dead, that couldn't be him anyway, but...
As he snapped back to reality, he realised that the man he had rescued was also quivering with fear; but there was gratitude in his eyes. "I am Darkman," growled Westlake. The thug heard this, scrambled to his feet and ran. Westlake watched him go; the satisfaction at the man's injury was still there. And then he realised - he was glad the man was hurt, not that the victim had been saved. And he felt nothing. Anger, but not rage. Cold. "I..." he began, not knowing what he had meant to say or how he intended to finish the sentence so he just ran, leaving the bewildered but grateful man behind him.
Murphy stood and watched as the figure barrelled down the alleyway, screaming in a chilling, almost feral way that made Murphy feel about two inches tall and faced with a large, hungry tiger; he shuddered convulsively. The man collided with the attacker and swung a powerful blow at his jaw. From the cracking sound, it was broken. The sheer force was frightening, the brutality of the charge. From the top of the alleyway, the police officer could just hear the rasping voice, ptyle="mso-spacerun: yes"> "I am Darkman," it said. Then the figure stopped. He just stopped moving, as if frozen in time and space. "I..." he uttered, but nothing followed it. Murphy was baffled. This man, this...thing...this Darkman, what was going through his head? Did he realise what he had just done? Was he in control? This guy had some serious issues to work out.
And then he turned, ran, and the night swallowed him. Murphy gulped. Crime had a new enemy that night. He considered following the Darkman, or talking to the guy he had rescued, but decided to head back to the station instead. Much safer.
As he ran, Peyton Westlake spent a few moments considering exactly where he was going. But he knew really. Who was it said that revenge is a dish best served cold? Tonight, he felt positively icy. "Bellisarius," he muttered to himself, "you're a dead man."
Police Chief Claude Bellisarius sat at his desk in the dark office. He had turned the lights off. Everyone else on this floor had gone home. Only the nightshift was left, two floors up. The phone call he had just received disturbed him. Jenny had had an encounter with this Darkman. She had told him everything, and that meant (although she had not said so specifically) that she had been terrified. That was enough for him to load his shotgun and his magnum .44 and put them somewhere conveniently at hand. Bellisarius had no doubt that the Darkman would be paying a visit, this new self-appointed lawman. Well, Bellisarius was not about to let this city out of his control. It was working beautifully, the criminals knew their places.
Strack's death had been a blow, of course. All this trouble started with that damn memorandum. If only he hadn't let that slip out of his grasp, maybe Strack would still be alive. Dammit. Well, this Darkman wouldn't get far. The magnum alone should stop him, but Bellisarus knew that preparation was the key to success. And he was always prepared. So he sat, in the dark, and waited.
Police headquarters. Murphy got out of his squad car and rounded the corner from the officer parking lot. From the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that he had seen a shadow cross the entrance to the station. Damn that Darkman, I'm seeing ghosts and shadows everywhere! he thought, trying to calm himself down. He headed up the steps.
The office floor was dark, the lights and computer terminals all turned off. He was reaching for the light switch when he saw a figure silhouetted in the frosted glass of the chief's door. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat. An intruder? Murphy's hand moved from the light switch to his service revolver. He unclipped it quietly and, gun in hand, crept toward the door, staying in the shadows. He approached the door and stopped, surprised as he heard a voice through the door. It was Bellisarius.
"I thought you'd come. Knew it wouldn't be long. Jenny called you see."
Peyton Westlake would have felt disgust had he not been so full of rage and thoughts of revenge. "You took bribes from Strack, the memorandum ended up in the flat above my lab, and the gangsters that you ignored did this to me!" He cried, tearing off the bandages from his face. His eyes took on a crazed look. "Like it, Bellisarius? Nice, eh? What a freak I am, yes? A freak!" He screamed and leapt over the desk at the leering gargoyle of a man in front of him. But Bellisarius was quick.
"Come on, Darkman, see sense," he appealed, only a touch of fear creeping into his voice. "You're angry, you want revenge, but this is the city we're talking about here. I have this place under control. There's always going to be organised crime in a big city, the only way to make sure it doesn't get out of hand is to organise it myself. Who better? We're not so different, you and I. We know what needs to be done to achieve our goals. Justice. Whatever the cost: the ends justifies the means."
Westlake was only enraged further, he lunged again, his sight now more than adequate in the low light. So he was blinded by the searing flash of the gun when Bellisarius fired. It took him a few seconds to realise that Bellisarius had shot him, and another couple to realise that he had shot him again and again and again. He fell, and the darkness was total.
Murphy stood, shocked. If it wasn't true, why had Bellisarius shot the Darkman? This was not justice, even less than this mysterious character's own methods. And now he was dead. Murphy suddenly felt very sick. He could barely believe it. This was not right. But what could he do?
Bellisarius stood over the man's body. Good riddance. A job well done. No crackpot freak of a vigilante superhero was going to mess up his town. No way. Justice was served. He was it.