Chapter 9: Set-up
As dawn's dim light comes across Gotham's jagged skyline, its humble and for the most part hardworking citizens are stumbling out of their beds and preparing for another routine workday. They can afford such expectations these days, thanks to their now diligent and efficient police force. Once helmed by corruption and vice, this squadron of dedicated men and women has now become a beacon to the rest of the nation. This change did not come easy, and can be attributed to the efforts of one man in particular, the same man who is currently sitting in his office and staring out a window at the now stirring populace. His name is James W. Gordon, the Commissioner, a man who knows his responsibilities and routinely makes decisions that would break any normal human being.
The weight of his most recent burden has etched itself in his face. His eyes are blood red and baggy, his general appearance haggard and weary. Something nagged at his mind throughout the evening, ever since he drove away from Wayne Manor, and he knew then, deep in his bones, that the dawn would prove difficult to face. He'd felt this before.
'How many of them just don't care,' he wonders, peering through the Venetian blinds, 'that someone's stalking criminals with an arsenal the army would be envious of? Worse yet, how many think it's a good thing?' His conscience won't let him fall in with the latter. 'It's slaughter, not justice. Bruce, you think the same way, don't you?' He shakes his head at having returned to the same restless thought. Adjusting the sling supporting his mangled right arm, a souvenir of gladiatorial combat forced upon him and Batman for the Joker's amusement, he sits and sighs heavily.
'Last night, did I do the right thing? He's my friend, and the amount of good he's done for the city demands some respect,' he sighs. 'He's changed. I don't know what caused it, Barbara, the bridge, Joker, whatever it was I can't help wondering that maybe I should have stopped him then and there, before..."
Gordon isn't allowed the chance finish his thought for at that moment Det. Bullock bursts into the office, sending chairs flying across the floor as he slams a file onto the Commissioner's desk. "In case you didn't know, Batman struck again last night. That's two more to add to the list, Commish. Quinn at the ruins and Dr. Thaddeus Marcus in his own God-damned-home!"
"It's not Batman!" Gordon yells back. "You just screwed yourself up, Harvey! Quinn's a logical choice, but why the hell would he kill a psychologist? It makes no sense!"
"Marcus was the shrink in charge when Joker busted out of Arkham. He was also the shrink in charge of Quinn. See the connection?"
The Commissioner nods, his mood becoming much more sullen as he whispers, "He's not a killer."
"Yeah?" Harvey starts back, "Well I think he is." Harvey removes two photos from the file and shoves them in front of the Commissioner, "And if the shoe fits..." The Commissioner pushes his glasses back into position and focuses his eyes upon the two photos before him. To his left is an image of a boot's impression taken from the ruins three weeks ago, the very night Joker struck. To the right is a bloody boot print taken from Dr. Marcus' apartment, dated last night. Both are very detailed imprints of a unique combat style boot that is unlikely to have come from the military. It's the kind of boot Batman would use. There's really only one conclusion.
I've got 5 more photos in there that match if you're still not convinced Commish, each one taken by yours truly after a bat incident over the past 6 months BEFORE the bridge."
"Get out," Gordon snaps, eyes blazing. With Bullock gone he falls back in his chair. Bullock's hatred of Batman makes him the exact anti-thesis to the Commissioner, allowing Bullock to see things that Gordon may subconsciously ignore. That's why Bullock's been kept on the case all this time, he's the only man Gordon trusts when it comes to Batman. The fact his left arm is shaking at Bullock's report tells him what he fears. It's times like this he wishes he could smoke in the office.
'It's not good,' he thinks, desperately trying to quell the tingle in his left arm, 'not good at all. I've got to be sure; I've got to see him. Not now, at night. I'm going to learn the truth, Bruce, no more of this questioning, no more cat-and-mouse. I'm going to see for myself, even if it kills me!' He takes a deep breath and the shakes subside. He's just given himself the rest of the day to try and find a reason for all this madness. Slightly calmer now, Commissioner Gordon stares down at the photos, and the bloodied prints in particular.
'Marcus.'
He calls for Det. Bullock. The unkempt detective saunters into the Commissioner's office with a grin, "So, Commish, you finally agree with my line of thinking?"
...
To most people such a room would only exist in books and movies. To the solitary individual standing in its center, it is nothing more than a distraction from the true task at hand. There's a million dollars beyond the mahogany doors entrapping him, and he couldn't care less. His slicked back black hair, gray suit and tie conceal his true nature. The dapper gentleman sits calmly in a nearby leather hewn chair and engages his surroundings. Nothing less than solid cherry, oak and mahogany adorns every corner, with exquisite art covering each conceivable bare spot, expertly placed so as to draw your attention from one to the next, creating a visual tour de force. Of course, only he can see the true message in the paintings. "Hello, good sir," a lanky, bald man enters, greeting his gray dressed guest. The impeccably dressed host sits behind his desk and smiles, "Now what can I do for you, officer...?"
"Detective, actually," the guest grins, "MacMurtney." He flashes a badge and photo I.D. The host turns slightly pale.
"We're only too pleased to help Gotham's finest, here at the First National. What do you require, detective?"
MacMurtney clears his throat briefly before continuing, "I'd like to look at the accounts of one of your clients. A Dr. Thaddeus Marcus. He was murdered last night and we're checking for any financial motives."
"Of course," the bank manager replies, "But I will need to see a warrant. We can't simply give away account information to anyone who asks for it."
"There's no time," MacMurtney answers in a slightly raised voice, "The killer could strike again at any moment. We need that information as soon as possible."
"But surely we...' the manager begins to protest. A dark gleam in MacMurtney's eyes tells him to do otherwise and the manager nervously smiles, "Of course, I see." He presses the intercom and requests the appropriate paperwork.
The Gotham First National Bank is the premier financial institution of a great metropolis, and prides itself on efficiency and courtesy. It's no wonder that MacMurtney is perusing Dr. Marcus' accounts scant moments after the request is made; with the manager looking on nervously as each page is turned. MacMurtney pauses at one page in particular, and smiles a toothy grin at the figures before him. His curiosity sated the detective flips the papers onto the manager's desk, rises from his seat and shows himself out without so much as a peep from his host. Relieved that the ordeal has ended the bank manager returns to his work at hand, with Marcus' file resting comfortably nearby.
After a few minutes his office door opens once more, and a rotund, poorly dressed and unshaven man enters wearing a soiled trenchcoat and fedora. He smiles politely after slamming the door behind him, "Hey there, you the guy in charge?"
"Yes," the manager answers meekly, fearing a robbery. The stranger reaches into a pocket and removes a badge, holding it up for the manager to see, "Detective Bullock, GCPD. We had a murder last night and the Commissioner wants us to check on the victim's financial records for a motive."
The manager can't believe his ears, "Dr. Thaddeus Marcus?"
"Yeah," Bullock looks back, "Saw it on the news, huh? So..."
The manager hands over the Marcus file, "No. Not the news. You're the second policeman to come in here and ask for that file."
"What?"
"A detective MacMurtney was here just a few minutes ago and..."
Now its Bullock's turn to look dumbfounded, "There's no detective MacMurtney on the force!"
...
Ivy is in a corner of her cell, shaking like a leaf, unable to comprehend what she just heard on the news in the media room of the asylum. 'The news,' she thinks rapidly, 'They always let us watch the news. Why didn't they tell us? Why? Were they afraid I'd crush them in a fit of rage? She's my BEST friend! She's the ONLY friend I've ever had, and no one told me! She made me laugh, she was so funny. All the others...'
'Why her? I don't care about Joker. Why her too? All the others are so selfish. I can hear them begging and pleading and hoping that the Batman won't kill them too. 'I'll be good Batman!' 'I'll take my medicine Batman!' 'Don't hurt me Batman!' None of you care about Harley. All of you are worse. Damn it, why her? She wasn't a killer. Not like us.'
Ivy's breathing is coming in short gasps now as her heart pumps in overtime. She could feel the poison, once purged from her system, begin to seep forth and fill her veins. She could see her complexion change, from normal flesh to something much greener and infinitely meaner. With the poison comes more hate, clouding her mind and judgment, silencing the world around her. She's always known that strong emotion, love and hate, would cause the quelling of her ability to hear the thoughts of others. Right now she doesn't care, welcoming the change, the accompanying silence, and hate. She screams. "I hate you Batman!"
'You're evil, like a weed choking the life out of a delicate flower. I'll find you, Batman. Tonight, I'll avenge Harley! Tonight...when you think yourself indestructible, I'll show you just how pathetic you really are...'
TO BE CONTINUED...
As dawn's dim light comes across Gotham's jagged skyline, its humble and for the most part hardworking citizens are stumbling out of their beds and preparing for another routine workday. They can afford such expectations these days, thanks to their now diligent and efficient police force. Once helmed by corruption and vice, this squadron of dedicated men and women has now become a beacon to the rest of the nation. This change did not come easy, and can be attributed to the efforts of one man in particular, the same man who is currently sitting in his office and staring out a window at the now stirring populace. His name is James W. Gordon, the Commissioner, a man who knows his responsibilities and routinely makes decisions that would break any normal human being.
The weight of his most recent burden has etched itself in his face. His eyes are blood red and baggy, his general appearance haggard and weary. Something nagged at his mind throughout the evening, ever since he drove away from Wayne Manor, and he knew then, deep in his bones, that the dawn would prove difficult to face. He'd felt this before.
'How many of them just don't care,' he wonders, peering through the Venetian blinds, 'that someone's stalking criminals with an arsenal the army would be envious of? Worse yet, how many think it's a good thing?' His conscience won't let him fall in with the latter. 'It's slaughter, not justice. Bruce, you think the same way, don't you?' He shakes his head at having returned to the same restless thought. Adjusting the sling supporting his mangled right arm, a souvenir of gladiatorial combat forced upon him and Batman for the Joker's amusement, he sits and sighs heavily.
'Last night, did I do the right thing? He's my friend, and the amount of good he's done for the city demands some respect,' he sighs. 'He's changed. I don't know what caused it, Barbara, the bridge, Joker, whatever it was I can't help wondering that maybe I should have stopped him then and there, before..."
Gordon isn't allowed the chance finish his thought for at that moment Det. Bullock bursts into the office, sending chairs flying across the floor as he slams a file onto the Commissioner's desk. "In case you didn't know, Batman struck again last night. That's two more to add to the list, Commish. Quinn at the ruins and Dr. Thaddeus Marcus in his own God-damned-home!"
"It's not Batman!" Gordon yells back. "You just screwed yourself up, Harvey! Quinn's a logical choice, but why the hell would he kill a psychologist? It makes no sense!"
"Marcus was the shrink in charge when Joker busted out of Arkham. He was also the shrink in charge of Quinn. See the connection?"
The Commissioner nods, his mood becoming much more sullen as he whispers, "He's not a killer."
"Yeah?" Harvey starts back, "Well I think he is." Harvey removes two photos from the file and shoves them in front of the Commissioner, "And if the shoe fits..." The Commissioner pushes his glasses back into position and focuses his eyes upon the two photos before him. To his left is an image of a boot's impression taken from the ruins three weeks ago, the very night Joker struck. To the right is a bloody boot print taken from Dr. Marcus' apartment, dated last night. Both are very detailed imprints of a unique combat style boot that is unlikely to have come from the military. It's the kind of boot Batman would use. There's really only one conclusion.
I've got 5 more photos in there that match if you're still not convinced Commish, each one taken by yours truly after a bat incident over the past 6 months BEFORE the bridge."
"Get out," Gordon snaps, eyes blazing. With Bullock gone he falls back in his chair. Bullock's hatred of Batman makes him the exact anti-thesis to the Commissioner, allowing Bullock to see things that Gordon may subconsciously ignore. That's why Bullock's been kept on the case all this time, he's the only man Gordon trusts when it comes to Batman. The fact his left arm is shaking at Bullock's report tells him what he fears. It's times like this he wishes he could smoke in the office.
'It's not good,' he thinks, desperately trying to quell the tingle in his left arm, 'not good at all. I've got to be sure; I've got to see him. Not now, at night. I'm going to learn the truth, Bruce, no more of this questioning, no more cat-and-mouse. I'm going to see for myself, even if it kills me!' He takes a deep breath and the shakes subside. He's just given himself the rest of the day to try and find a reason for all this madness. Slightly calmer now, Commissioner Gordon stares down at the photos, and the bloodied prints in particular.
'Marcus.'
He calls for Det. Bullock. The unkempt detective saunters into the Commissioner's office with a grin, "So, Commish, you finally agree with my line of thinking?"
...
To most people such a room would only exist in books and movies. To the solitary individual standing in its center, it is nothing more than a distraction from the true task at hand. There's a million dollars beyond the mahogany doors entrapping him, and he couldn't care less. His slicked back black hair, gray suit and tie conceal his true nature. The dapper gentleman sits calmly in a nearby leather hewn chair and engages his surroundings. Nothing less than solid cherry, oak and mahogany adorns every corner, with exquisite art covering each conceivable bare spot, expertly placed so as to draw your attention from one to the next, creating a visual tour de force. Of course, only he can see the true message in the paintings. "Hello, good sir," a lanky, bald man enters, greeting his gray dressed guest. The impeccably dressed host sits behind his desk and smiles, "Now what can I do for you, officer...?"
"Detective, actually," the guest grins, "MacMurtney." He flashes a badge and photo I.D. The host turns slightly pale.
"We're only too pleased to help Gotham's finest, here at the First National. What do you require, detective?"
MacMurtney clears his throat briefly before continuing, "I'd like to look at the accounts of one of your clients. A Dr. Thaddeus Marcus. He was murdered last night and we're checking for any financial motives."
"Of course," the bank manager replies, "But I will need to see a warrant. We can't simply give away account information to anyone who asks for it."
"There's no time," MacMurtney answers in a slightly raised voice, "The killer could strike again at any moment. We need that information as soon as possible."
"But surely we...' the manager begins to protest. A dark gleam in MacMurtney's eyes tells him to do otherwise and the manager nervously smiles, "Of course, I see." He presses the intercom and requests the appropriate paperwork.
The Gotham First National Bank is the premier financial institution of a great metropolis, and prides itself on efficiency and courtesy. It's no wonder that MacMurtney is perusing Dr. Marcus' accounts scant moments after the request is made; with the manager looking on nervously as each page is turned. MacMurtney pauses at one page in particular, and smiles a toothy grin at the figures before him. His curiosity sated the detective flips the papers onto the manager's desk, rises from his seat and shows himself out without so much as a peep from his host. Relieved that the ordeal has ended the bank manager returns to his work at hand, with Marcus' file resting comfortably nearby.
After a few minutes his office door opens once more, and a rotund, poorly dressed and unshaven man enters wearing a soiled trenchcoat and fedora. He smiles politely after slamming the door behind him, "Hey there, you the guy in charge?"
"Yes," the manager answers meekly, fearing a robbery. The stranger reaches into a pocket and removes a badge, holding it up for the manager to see, "Detective Bullock, GCPD. We had a murder last night and the Commissioner wants us to check on the victim's financial records for a motive."
The manager can't believe his ears, "Dr. Thaddeus Marcus?"
"Yeah," Bullock looks back, "Saw it on the news, huh? So..."
The manager hands over the Marcus file, "No. Not the news. You're the second policeman to come in here and ask for that file."
"What?"
"A detective MacMurtney was here just a few minutes ago and..."
Now its Bullock's turn to look dumbfounded, "There's no detective MacMurtney on the force!"
...
Ivy is in a corner of her cell, shaking like a leaf, unable to comprehend what she just heard on the news in the media room of the asylum. 'The news,' she thinks rapidly, 'They always let us watch the news. Why didn't they tell us? Why? Were they afraid I'd crush them in a fit of rage? She's my BEST friend! She's the ONLY friend I've ever had, and no one told me! She made me laugh, she was so funny. All the others...'
'Why her? I don't care about Joker. Why her too? All the others are so selfish. I can hear them begging and pleading and hoping that the Batman won't kill them too. 'I'll be good Batman!' 'I'll take my medicine Batman!' 'Don't hurt me Batman!' None of you care about Harley. All of you are worse. Damn it, why her? She wasn't a killer. Not like us.'
Ivy's breathing is coming in short gasps now as her heart pumps in overtime. She could feel the poison, once purged from her system, begin to seep forth and fill her veins. She could see her complexion change, from normal flesh to something much greener and infinitely meaner. With the poison comes more hate, clouding her mind and judgment, silencing the world around her. She's always known that strong emotion, love and hate, would cause the quelling of her ability to hear the thoughts of others. Right now she doesn't care, welcoming the change, the accompanying silence, and hate. She screams. "I hate you Batman!"
'You're evil, like a weed choking the life out of a delicate flower. I'll find you, Batman. Tonight, I'll avenge Harley! Tonight...when you think yourself indestructible, I'll show you just how pathetic you really are...'
TO BE CONTINUED...