Anchorman: "Good morning Gotham. We are interrupting your regularly scheduled programming for a news bulletin. The body count rises as a fifth victim in the 'Trash Man' murders has been found."
Archival video footage runs showing a stunning blonde in a tiara and silk sash walking down a runway with a bouquet of roses in her arms. She is waving and smiling while tears stream down her face.
Anchorman: "Identified as beauty queen Erin Cartwright, the former Miss Gotham was discovered in the early hours by a friend. Cartwright was second runner up in the Miss America pageant two years ago and is the fifth victim of the still-unknown murderer.
"We take you now live to Summer Gleeson, outside One Police Plaza for some breaking news. Summer?"
Gleeson: "Thank you, John. We're awaiting the arrival of Police Commissioner James Gordon who is about to make a statement concerning the rumors surrounding the deaths of five Gotham women, and will hopefully address the revelation that all women were at one time or another linked romantically with millionaire Bruce Wayne. The last body found just this morning, has been identified as twenty-five-year-old Erin Cartwright, who dated Wayne shortly after winning her Miss Gotham crown. Prior victims include Nancy Palmateri, a renowned artist living in Soho, singer Aleecia St. Germain, ballet dancer Sylvie Herschel, and model Brandy Valentine. My police source has also indicated that there is also a possible, unidentified sixth victim who survived the killer's attack, but this has as of yet remained unconfirmed. Commissioner Gordon is coming out now…"
A crowd of eager and anxious reporters surge towards the podium as the gray-haired policeman steps up to the microphone.
Reporter 1: "Commissioner! Is it true? Are all of these women connected to Bruce Wayne?"
Gordon: "Yes. All victims so far have had a past history with Mr. Wayne. However we can not assume that that is the sole motivating factor."
Reporter 2: "Is Wayne a suspect?"
Gordon: "Absolutely not. Mr. Wayne has provided more than adequate alibis for all the crimes. He has been very cooperative in our investigation."
Reporter 3: "Could he have hired someone to kill them?"
Gordon shakes his head emphatically. "Absolutely not. These are crimes of hate and passion, the result of an unbalanced mind."
Reporter 2: "Is there any pattern in how the victims are chosen?"
Gordon: "None that we can discern. The attacks seem completely random."
Reporter 1: "What precautions are you taking now to insure no one else gets hurt?"
Gordon: "Mr. Wayne has generously provided us with a list of possible victims. We have increased patrols and enlisted the help of several Neighborhood Watch programs in the areas where they reside. We have also advised these women to take extreme caution with strangers and to notify us if they see anything out of the ordinary. This goes for all citizens of Gotham. Report any unusual behavior to the police."
Reporter 3: "What about the vigilante contingent?"
Gordon: "I don't understand what you mean?"
Reporter 3: "Batman and his cohorts. Are they assisting?"
Gordon: "It is not the policy of the police department to cooperate with those working outside the law. Next question."
Reporter 2: "Are you any closer to identifying the so-called 'Trash Man'?"
Gordon: "I can't comment on an ongoing investigation. Next."
Gleeson: "Commissioner! Is it true there is a sixth victim, one who survived? And if so, can she identify the killer? Is that why she's been kept secret?"
Gordon: "That's three questions, Summer, and the answer to all of them is no comment."
Gleeson: "But Commissioner…!"
Gordon: "This press conference is now concluded. Thank you for your time."
Lucas Raven shut off the television. At the other end of the couch his wife sobbed lightly. In between them sat Rebecca, feeling like a lightening bolt and gone right through her. She got up and walked to the large picture window, leaning her head against the cool glass.
Her father came up beside her and laid a large hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry about all of this, pumpkin," he said tenderly.
She let out a haggard breath. "Why didn't he kill me? Why would he hurt me like that and leave me alive?"
"I don't know, but I'm incredibly grateful he did," her father assured her.
"Sometimes I'm not."
"I don't want to hear talk like that, young lady." Despite the harshness of the words, Rebecca was soothed. She turned into the comfort of his arms and allowed herself at least the illusion of paternal protection.
"I've been thinking about calling Bruce," she said against his chest. She could feel the heave of his sigh. "This must be hard on him too."
"I'm sure he's surviving just fine. But I'll support any decision you make."
Barbara Gordon grimly hit the button on her remote control. She looked up at the young man standing next to her. "Well it's finally out."
"We knew it couldn't be kept a secret indefinitely," he replied.
"He's going to be a pariah now."
"Somehow I doubt he'll suffer that much," Dick replied dryly.
"How can you be so glib at a time like this?" she asked crossly.
"Because he brought it on himself." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Look, I want to stop this guy as much as you do, but I don't find the loss of Bruce Wayne's social life to be a huge tragedy in the grand scheme of things, okay?" She harrumphed and rolled across the floor of the living room. "As much as I'd like to continue with this stimulating debate, I've got to run. Some things I need to get done at home, maybe catch a few z's, then I'll be back tonight for patrol."
"Fine. Oh by the way," she called to him. "I wanted to thank you for the flowers."
"Flowers?" he asked, confused.
"Sure, they came yesterday, anonymously. I don't know how I could possibly have a secret admirer, so I assumed they came from you. Am I wrong?"
He grinned broadly. "Of course not. Glad you liked them." He kissed her on the mouth. "See you later."
Bruce Wayne walked down the busy street, briefcase in his left hand, looking very much like the rushed, haggard businessman he was. He didn't like feeling like a rushed, haggard businessman in the least. Running his father's company had been an honor and a pleasure, which he took extremely seriously considering the vast revenue and jobs it brought into his city. The prosperous company and its cutting-edge technology development branch provided him limitless resources in his nocturnal hunt for all those that hampered justice or threatened the innocent. But right now he would rather sell it all for a dollar than to attend the meeting he was heading towards.
The board of directors wanted to speak with him concerning recent events made public by this morning's press conference, and oh by the way the entire legal department will be in attendance.
He should have easily anticipated this move if he weren't so preoccupied with other details, like stopping this deranged stalker before half the female population in Gotham was dead and the other half decided to lynch him.
The backlash had already started. As the newsbyte spread to the far reaches of the globe more calls were coming in. He'd finally had Alfred disconnect the manor's main number since the words 'no comment' had lost all meaning. But it wasn't those calls that bothered him. It was the calls from the women, crying, wondering if they were going to be next or accusing him of being in league with the killer, many not even convinced he wasn't the killer.
And now he was on his way to defend himself to a group of old men who had been watching and waiting for him to make that one gross error in judgment as he continued with the playboy routine, looking for just the right opportunity to push him out of the way and gain control for themselves. This time they might just get it.
So absorbed was he in his inner conflict that he almost didn't see the man walking directly towards him.
"Mr. Wayne!" he greeted enthusiastically with an outstretched hand and a wide smile.
Assuming a reporter, Bruce ignored the hand and replied with a curt, "Yes?"
"My name is Dante Russo. I believe you know my mother, Marisole." He stood expectantly and reached up to remove a pair of sunglasses revealing dark blue eyes, made all the more stunning by his Mediterranean coloring and jet black hair.
"I'm afraid not. The name doesn't ring a bell. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for a meeting." He tried to walk around, but the young man moved to intercept.
"She worked at the Natural History Museum, as an assistant curator," he insisted.
Bruce thought for a moment. "I am on the board, I suppose I could have met her. Is she still there?"
Eyes narrowing he replied, "No, she gave it up a few years back."
"In that case, give her my best," Bruce said and started walking away.
"You know, you're really something of an inspiration for me, Bruce," Dante called after him.
Bruce paused and looked back, spine tingling with something between dread and insight. "How so?"
With a wry grin and a tilt of the head, Dante answered, "How successful you are with women. You're quite the player." He dropped a suggestive wink. "What's your secret? I mean it can't just be the money, can it? You really should write a book to let the rest of us mere mortals in on it." Bruce felt a cold chill despite the warm afternoon. Dante took a step backwards even as he kept talking. "But you're off the market now, or so I've heard, with that airline heiress, what's her name?" He snapped his fingers together. "Rebecca, right? Though now she probably won't touch you with a ten-foot pole - or is it the other way around?" Step. "Tell me," he said with vague malice as his hand returned the sunglasses to his nose and Bruce saw the healing bite wound. "What's worse? Losing that nice piece of ass, or her daddy's company?"
Bruce growled and the briefcase fell to the sidewalk with a thud, unheeded. He instinctively reached out to grab the man, but having moved out of arm's reach Dante promptly used the advantage to turn and start sprinting down the block. Bruce wasted no time in beginning pursuit, roughly shoving aside pedestrians, ignoring their cries of outrage.
Dante was fast and the business attire was cumbersome, but Bruce began to steadily gain ground, until a woman pushing a stroller cut in front of him, almost tripping him up. In the split second it took to zigzag around the mother, Dante had disappeared around a corner.
Following close behind he scanned for the fleeing man, but everyone in sight was walking with the natural hurriedness of a typical Gotham urbanite. He moved forward quickly, searching faces on the street, in store fronts, in the cars on the street but the man who'd introduced himself as Dante Russo, though he was becoming far better known under another name, had disappeared among the day to day bustle.
Finally giving up, Bruce stood in the middle of the sidewalk breathing heavily, not from exertion but from mental overload, as he was pushed and shoved, considering what had just happened. The killer had sought him out, thrown down the gauntlet, taunted him as a cat playing with a mouse. But what Dante failed to realize was that he was playing with a much more formidable prey – The Bat.