Nightwing perched quietly across from the old brownstone building, watching the police scurry around like blind mice. Only moments before had he seen Batman descend and enter the building under the noses of a dozen of Gotham's finest.
He sensed the newcomer behind him, but remained unalarmed as Robin took up the watch next to him.
"Word travels fast," he commented to the newest Boy Wonder.
"Whose patrol was she on?" Tim asked.
"Cass's," Dick responded and nodded in the direction of the rooftop immediately next to the building in question. Amidst the shadows a deeper shadow stood stock-still and watched the proceedings as well.
"She's going to beat herself up about it."
"She shouldn't. We can't be everywhere at once. If we can't anticipate his moves, then it's really all about odds."
"Like you wouldn't if she'd been yours to watch?" Robin asked. They had all taken Bruce's list of women and split them up into patrols in the hopes of staying the Trash Man's hand. Batgirl had only been two blocks away when the call hit the police band.
Nightwing just shook his head. "Batman's inside," he mentioned.
Robin crossed his arms. "He must be stretched pretty thin by now. Alfred says he's not eating, not sleeping. I can barely get two words out of him when I see him, and usually all they are is 'Go patrol.' He's taking this way too personally."
Nightwing looked sideways at his young ally. "Women are dying and his name is connected to each one. I think that's pretty personal."
"You know what I mean. It's like he believes he's the cause."
"Isn't he?"
Robin stepped back. "What's that supposed to mean? He's not killing them, he's not making that sick fuck kill them," he replied indignantly.
Shaking his head Nightwing said, "He didn't have to keep it up the way he did. He was so intent on making this polar opposite personality – oversexed playboy – that he forgot these are actual people he's dealing with, not props in a play."
"C'mon, it can't be that bad. Besides I've seen a lot of the women he goes around with, bunch of gold diggers and thrill seekers. Met a few myself," he muttered, recalling some of the girls that had already started approaching him, seeing only the Drake money and not Tim.
"Yeah," Dick agreed with a shrug. "There were plenty of those alright, but there were some really nice ladies, too. Women who thought they actually had a future. They'd get attached and he'd blow them off with a, 'Sayonara babe, it's been fun.'" He dropped his head. "I actually had one come up to me and say she'd kill herself if he wouldn't take her back. I was about fifteen at the time. I didn't know what to say to her."
"You're pulling my leg."
"No. People see him a certain way, because that's the way he wants to be seen – shallow, carefree, selfish. Someone just bought into too much and has decided to do something about it. That's all I'm trying to say."
Robin looked pensively. "What about Rebecca?" he asked quietly. "He's been with her for, what, 2 months?"
"Same old shit. He told Barb he was about to break it off with her the night she was attacked. I guess we'll just have to wait and see. He's going to be screwed no matter what he does now."
Batman entered the ground floor entrance to the old building. Two doors stood to the right and left: apartments. Straight ahead, stairs led to the upper floors made up almost entirely of an art studio with comfortable living quarters. As owner of the building, Nancy Palmateri had been able to renovate it to suit her needs, leaving the extra space below for tenants.
Entering the loft studio, he paused to look around. Cops everywhere, no sign of Gordon, but Penway saw him instantly and with a look of almost pure revulsion, waved him over. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I heard the call on the police band. Happened to be in the neighborhood," Batman lied.
"You are aware that the police band is for police? Whatever. I don't know why, but Gordon thinks you walk on water. Come on in."
"Where is the commissioner?"
"Dealing with the mayor and other politicos downtown. They're not sure how much longer they can keep the lid on Wayne's involvement in all of this. God knows the panic it's going to cause once it gets out."
Batman looked around and saw chaos. Furniture overturned, paint spilled, glass shattered, books flung aside open to pages no one was going to read. "How did he get in?"
Penway led him to the kitchen area. On the table was a thin square box with a grinning cartoon chef on the cover. With a pencil, Penway raised the lid. A pizza – pepperoni and green pepper – sat inside, completely untouched. "A call came in earlier today. Delivery guy was attacked at a stop and his car was stolen. His hat, too." Batman nodded as Penway continued. "So she ordered a pizza and it arrived. But," he paused dramatically, waving his arm in a sweeping motion indicating the obvious signs of struggle. "I don't think she had a chance to enjoy it." He moved on to what would be considered the living room. A couch, a couple of chairs, an entertainment system with a fifty-CD-changer, which no one had bothered to turn off. Elton John was proclaiming the bitch was back over the surround sound speakers. On the floor an unidentifiable mound covered with a white sheet. "Neighbors were gone when it happened, but when they returned home they noticed the door to her loft was open and came to investigate. We've only missed him by an hour, two at most.
Penway squatted down next to the mound and wordlessly lifted the corner. She was on her back, shirt still on but ripped down the front, naked from the waist down. Her long brown hair was spread around her head, matted in pools of blood. Her face was cut and bruised almost beyond recognition. The detective cleared his throat. "Severe head injuries. He smashed it against the floor to subdue her. Chances are slim she would have survived even if he didn't bother strangling her." His voice was somber, almost respectful, a vast difference from the flippancy he had shown towards Aleecia's demise.
"So she was unconscious when he raped her," Batman noted.
"Probably." Penway cut his eyes away for a moment. "He really hates it when they fight, doesn't he?"
"No, he likes it." The detective eyed him questioningly. "The others were just business. This is what he really enjoys."
"Then why not do it all the time?"
"Too messy, too much risk at being caught. Plus there's a loss of control. He isn't just doing this for pleasure, he has an agenda and he wants to reach the end of it."
"So if he could have gotten to her another way, like he did the others…?"
"Yes. But he would have never been able to get to her, not like that," Batman replied cryptically and turned away. Artwork was everywhere, finished and unfinished. It hung on the walls and was stacked on the floors. If she wasn't completely happy with a painting she quickly gave it up and started on something new. She had more works in progress than finished, but when she did finally complete a project it was beyond incredible.
After seeing examples of her talent at a art gallery reception, Bruce had decided that the Wayne Tower's lobby was in desperate need of a new mural. After managing to get a lunch meeting with her, he had been so intent on getting her to agree to his proposal, he had laid on the charm extra thick. It was during the salad course when she'd set down her fork, crossed her arms, and said, "Mr. Wayne, let me stop you before you hurt yourself. I'm gay."
Bruce had actually laughed as he realized how his eagerness had translated. "My apologies. Though contrary to popular belief, I'm not out to get every woman into bed."
She smiled. "Good. Now let's discuss my fee." It had been a completely refreshing afternoon. Not only had she agreed to do the mural, Bruce had discovered an amazingly charming and intelligent woman with a Masters degree in art history and a Bachelors in sociology who could debate the socks off any politician. Once the mural had been completed, he was so impressed he had taken her to dinner at Gotham's finest restaurant to show his gratitude.
He returned to the present as he heard Penway say, "He didn't even bother with the card this time." The killer had taken one of her thin paintbrushes and on the floor next to her body, written in her own blood was, How's this for a masterpiece? But in the end art is only garbage, whether it's hanging on museum walls or lying on the floor. Bruce Wayne knows all about this. The Trash Man.