A Study in Fear : Part II
Dutch hit the floor and didn't get up.
Batman stood above him and laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And the more that
he laughed, the more he sounded like the Joker. And the more that he sounded
like the Joker, the more Dutch remember what madness sounded like.
"My dear fellow, writhe and grovel all
that you will for it will gain you nothing." said the Batman, stepping
over Dutch and crouching down in front of him. He grabbed a fistful of Dutch's
hair and pulled his face up to meet his. Dutch didn't think he had hit him that
hard, but still Batman's face wavered and floated like the surface of a lake of
his vision. Dutch felt punch drunk, like he done ten rounds, or twenty, not a
matter of seconds which was all that had passed since Batman had appeared.
"You know, it really is incredible
just how afraid you are." said Batman, dropping Dutch face first into the
concrete floor. "I can't remember that last time that I felt terror. Real
terror." Batman's voice trailed off and walked a few paces away from
Dutch. Dutch pulled himself up on one elbow and felt something loose and heavy
inside his jacket. He reached down and felt a heavy wet shifting mass where his
stomach was supposed to be. Blood dripped between the buttons of his jacket,
and he felt his insides move outside as he groped around.
Behind Batman Dutch could see the others
that he had been on this job with. Kids most of them, they were scattered
around the warehouse like a child's discarded Christmas toys. Twisted into
shapes that people weren't supposed to make, grim marionettes with their
strings cut. Blood was splattered over the floor and the walls. Some much
blood. And something else. Something that hung in the air and clogged the
throat and made Dutch's eye weak and teary. Something that in the back of
Dutch's mouth tasted like fear.
"You... shot me?" the question
sounded ridiculous; but Dutch had been sure that the Batman never used guns. It
was part of the legend. Everyone knew. The Bat hated guns. Didn't he?
"Of course!" said Batman,
snipping on his heel to face Dutch again. "And wouldn't I ?" As he
moved closer he seem to grow in size. His shoulders grew wider, he was taller,
and his face. His face was as black and terrifying as Dutch had dreamt a
thousands times since he was last this close to the Batman.
"Because you're..." croaked
Dutch. He stopped mid-sentence as a hot pain suddenly engulfed his chest. He
felt something pop somewhere down in his abdomen, and the front of his jacked
was suddenly thick with escaping blood.
"Why not?" said Batman, his faces
inches from Dutch now.
"Because you're Batman"
"Yes, that's right. I am."
And the Batman laughed. And before Dutch
died he knew for sure what madness sounded like.
It was cold on top of police headquarters,
with a thin wind from the docks cutting across the city. Jim Gordon pulled his
raincoat a little tighter against the chill and waited for Batman to arrive.
The Bat-Signal blazed in the sky on the underside of a thick bank of cloud. A storm
was brewing, Gordon could the anticipation in the air. It was palatable making
the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he stood watching the clouds.
He supposed it was static electricity, or air pressure, or something similar,
or maybe just man's eternal fear of the elements.
"Jim"
The deep voice behind Gordon was
unmistakable. It was less than a voice, and yet more. More like the feral growl
of a wolf, but with a depth of human compassion Gordon knew was missing
from his own voice. Was missing from the voice of most men and women alive.
"Batman... I'm glad you could
come". Gordon never knew how to start these conversations. He had known
Batman for nearly five years and yet. Whatever was between them, whether or not
it ran deeper or truer than friendship, had no room for niceties. "There's
a situation I need to talk to you about"
Batman stood impassively. Waiting. Like the
clouds. A storm brewing.
"A robbery was foiled last night, at
the Shipman warehouse off Dock C". Gordon shuffled his feet and couldn't
believe that was self conscious after all this time. How many times had he gone
through this, in real and in theory. How many times had the integrity of the
man standing before him been questioned and how many times had he been borne
out. But still Gordon had to ask the question; had to know for himself.
"Some the robbers... died. The others, the ones that survived, say that
you were there"
Batman was silent. The clouds rolled on
overhead and the first droplet of rain fell and sizzled on the hot lamp of the
Bat Signal.
"I didn't patrol the docks last
night" he said. Before Gordon to speak there was a crack of thunder
overhead and the rain began to fall in earnest. 'Does even the weather wait for
him?' wondered Gordon.
"OK" said Gordon. "Batman, you
know that I have to ask. It's not for me, but it's for the people who trust me
like I trust you. That's why I have to ask"
"I understand" said Batman,
although there was something in his tone that made Gordon think that he never
would. He had chosen his life, his crusade, his quest, whatever it was that he
called it and by doing so had distanced himself from everyone and everything.
He was the Batman, and whilst everyone knew and was afraid of the Bat the Man
remained an enigma.
"The men who died, they way they died.
It's unusual. I thought you might like to take a look". Gordon drew a thin
file from inside his raincoat and held it outstretched. The Batman moved out of
the shadows and took it, slipping back the moment that he had them in his
grasp. Before Gordon could speak Batman moved his hand to his ear and looked
out across the city. His eyes narrowed as he turned back towards the
Commissioner. "I have to go" he said.
Suddenly a door opened behind Gordon and a
young police officer stepped out onto the rain swept roof.
"Commissioner" he called out, shielding his eyes against the rain and
the glare from the Bat Signal. Gordon turned towards the officer, doing his
best to stay between Batman and the other man. It was no secret that the
Commissioner of Police held an allay in Gotham's Dark Knight, but Gordon
appreciated that the myth of Batman was at least as important as the reality.
"Commissioner" said the officer
"Lt. Bullock said you had to come right away. It's a siege at Gotham TV1.
There are hostages."
Gordon turned back towards the Batman.
"I have to..."
But there were only shadows and clouds and
rain and thunder and the Bat Signal glaring out at the storming sky.
"Switch that thing off" said
Gordon as he pushed past the young officer and down the stairs.
The TV studio shouldn't have been silent.
The cameras were still rolling; but the show was over, at least the show that
had been planned. Reverend Buddy Doyle lay across the toppled alter from which
he had delivered his sermon just an hour ago. The plastic Jesus on the front
has smashed, leaving the decapitated body of the Messiah still nailed to the
cross. The head had rolled away, and now stared blankly up at the one of the TV
cameras, it's mouth half open to speak, but the words lost. The poignancy of
the image was wasted on a TV audience; which sat in a terrified silence, broken
only by their own shallow breathing. Some of them had noticed that Buddy
had stopped breathing some time ago, but most of them were still staring at the
plastic Jesus.
None of them could move.
Because, if they moved, 40kg of Semtex
explosive would be set off which would reduce them, Buddy and the plastic Jesus
to a barely seperateable pulp.
Above them, in the control room of the TV
studio, another show was being filmed. It was, predominately, unscripted.
Dr. Michael Rosen sat in a high backed
leather chair and leaned close to the lens of the camera. A day's growth of
this beard had cast a grimy gray shadow across his face, and dirty smudge marks
were streaked under his eyes. His eyes were glazed, but contained a serenity
which was almost absorbing. Dr. Michael Rosen knew something that the rest of
the world didn't. Or at least he thought he did. Either way, it was his
conviction that had given him the presence of mind to strap 200 innocent
Gothamites to their chairs in a TV studio, kill the shows evangelical host, and
sit here and talk to his captive audience (here and at home) for the past hour
and a half.
"And so, you see, in conclusion my
dear friends.. what I am doing here is purely a manner of demonstration. I do
not, and cannot, expect you to care about the fate of two hundred Mexican boys
in a refuge in a town which you've never heard of and will never visit. They
are just faces on a TV screen to you and me. Images; flat 2-dimensional images.
But what about 200 people from the city that you live in ?"
Rosen rubbed the bridge of his nose. Until
this morning he had worn prescription glasses. He was a better person now
though, and wearing glasses shouldn't have been necessary.
"I want you to pledge your money,
people of Gotham", he continued, "To save... People of Gotham! Is the
price to much to pay now? Is the problem not close enough to home? Pledge your
money now and, not only will these people go free but little Pedro.... ah
little Pedro."
The glazed look had returned to Rosen's eye
and a single tear began to swell in the corner of this left eye. He held a hand
to his chest over his heart, and placed the other on the top of the TV camera.
Leaning so close that his face became little more than a blur with a mouth he
whispered to the waiting world.. "We can save little Pedro!"
Outside, little Pedro's plight was
generally being ignored. A police blockage had been thrown around the TV
station; but this hadn't stopped a pack of reporters; baying and screeching
like hyenas; from massing up against the cordon. Overhead, TV helicopters vied
with police helicopters for the best view points whilst their search lights
dogged each other over the front of the building. All but the essential staff
required to keep the impromptu charity benefit being held by Dr.Rosen had been
moved out the building and most were busy negotiating fees for their stories
with their own or rival channels.
Surrounded by another cordon of police tape
and burly crowd control officers was the Gotham City Special Crime's Unit
Operations Wagon. Just smaller in a tractor trailer in size, the inside was a
cramped hive of electronics and logistics displays which had barely enough room
left to house it's full compliment of ten officers. It dominated the scene
before it, it's roof mounted antennas spinning around as it constantly
monitored and controlled the activity around it. Inside, Jim Gordon was the
human mind behind that electronic control.
"OK, I want information! I want to
know who these kidnappers, what their demands are, what their agenda is. I want
backgrounds. I want families. I want anyone who can give an insight into who
these people are and what they are doing within arms reach in the next 30
minutes."
Police officers buzzed around Jim Gordon
like bees around their queen. As each command was barked out an officer
dispatched themselves to fulfill it, whilst another filled his place almost
instantly. There was no question about who would do what or when; Gordon
directed each command with precision at this chosen officer for each task.
Nobody questioned his orders, nobody second guessed. It was not fear or rank
that created this atmosphere, but respect. It was palatable in the air. Jim
Gordon was here. The Commissioner was here. People outside of Gotham mocked him
as a paper police man, a front for the urban legend that was responsible for
policing Gotham City. These were people who hadn't met him; people who hadn't stood
in his presence. There was a glow around him now, an aura like static
electricity.
With the last of the officers dispatched,
Jim Gordon placed one hand on the small operations table and let out a long
slow breath. The only man left in the op's vehicle, other than the men manning
the various scanners and monitors was Lt. Harvey Bullock. A broad man with no
taste in ties, shirts, food, or anything else Bullock was a street cop who had
found his way to the top not through ambition but by being the best of his
breed. He ate, slept, ate and drank police work and if there was no better
police commissioner than Jim Gordon, there was no better police officer than
Harvey Bullock. After No Man's Land Bullock had been promoted to Lieutenant,
and while he was still adjusting to his new role, the people around him had
already accepting him as an authority on policing in Gotham City.
"It's gonna be a long night
Commissioner" he said, easing his way around Gordon to plump himself down
in a free chair. "These wack-jobs say they won't free a single hostage
until they've raised a million dollars for this goddamn Mexican Refuge"
"They won't negotiate"
"Not with me, not with you, not even
with the priest that we ordered. They said they weren't serving God know, the
higher power of the 'civil consciousness' whatever the hell that
is".
"See if we can run anything down on
that" said Gordon, placing his hand on the shoulder of one of the computer
operators "Maybe it's a new religious group of something"
"It's not" said a voice from
behind Gordon and Bullock. Bullock spun on his chair to face the door whist
Gordon turned more slowly. He had long since ceased to leap out of his skin
when the Batman appeared. Batman stood framed in the doorway, a beam of light
from an idling search light casting his shadow across the inside of the op's
vehicle. Gordon shuddered; he may have stopped jumping, but Batman could still
give him the willies. Batman flowed in through the door, his cape billowing out
and pluming the room into a gloom before he stopped in a shadowed corner in of
the truck. Lights from the computer monitor reflecting in the rain soaked
leather of his cape and a small puddle was collecting around his feet. It
looked to Gordon like he had already been outside for the best part of an hour;
nearly as long as he had been here in the ops truck.
"And how would you know?" asked
Bullock. His tone was gruff, aggressive. He had no patience with the Dark
Knight's taste for melodrama and subterfuge. He had never understood why
someone could risk their life in a cape and mask but not from behind a badge.
He had heard the stories and the rumors; from his own colleagues as well as
innumerate petty thugs and criminals he had found dangling from bat ropes
around the city. He knew the myth, but unlike most others, he chose not to
believe it.
"I keep a detailed file on religious
and political groups active in Gotham, and they're not in it" replied
Batman, his own tone calm, almost contemplative. "It seems more likely to
a philosophical reference; something along the line of Jung's collective
unconscious - the linking of human minds through the subconscious"
"So what do they want?" asked
Gordon.
"They want to help people. They want
to ally the guilt which society holds for neglecting it's own underclass"
"Your beginning to sound like that
freak on the TV" interjected Bullock.
"I know." said Batman "I've
been listening to him for a hour".
Inside the TV station things were not going
as planned. Despite Dr. Rosen's impassioned pleas for donations, the phones had
stayed quiet. The only calls had been from the police and their negotiators. Of
course they wanted to help. Of course they wanted to help Pedro and the refuge.
But they didn't have a million dollars. But the people did. In their banks and
their wallets and underneath their sofas. They were the great untapped resource
which could help the underclass, they were his bankroll in his mission to
create a better society. But still not phone calls came. He knew the show was
still on the air, his tiny portable TV showed him quite clearly as he spoke to
the people of the suffering and the pain of Pedro and children like Pedro. He
reminded them of their soft beds and their warm pillows and their food and
their shelter and all things that they had. He reminded them of No Man's Land,
and how for Pedro, everywhere was a No Mans Land.
Why didn't they listen.
Obviously, they needed more convincing.
Dr. Rosen stormed out of the control room
and down the narrow metal staircase in the studio. The audience were still
there of course, still sitting staring into nothingness. A dark red pool has
spread out from underneath Reverend Buddy now and had coated the pale wood of
the alter. As it pooled it had begun to look like the plastic Jesus was the one
that was bleeding from his fatal decapitation. Again, The poignancy of the
image was wasted. Dr.Rosen hurried over to the control box which he had placed
behind Buddy and his alter. Bare wires snaked out from it to each one of the
seats which housed the audience. It has been simple to construct, he had found
most of the parts in his garage (with the exception of the Semtex which had
come at no small price from a friend of a friend ). The gun had done the rest,
finding him an impromptu workforce in the studio audience which he had taken
hostage. Of course, they had needed to be convinced, and shooting Reverend
Buddy in the face had made them most agreeable. The irony that they were
trapped in seats rigged with explosives which they themselves had rigged was,
of course, lost of them. Dr. Rosen detached one of the wires from the box and
followed to the chair that it was attached to. It's occupant, a young girl in a
dress with embroidered crucifixes on it and a badge with picture of Reverend
Buddy's now missing face on it, sat in silence in front of Dr. Rosen. He took
her by the hand, and with the gentle touch of a surgeon, led her out of the
audience and up the stares.
One bullet had bought him the compliance of
this studio full of people. How many would it take for Gotham City?
