BATMAN: GOTHAM CAMPAIGN OF CRIME

By Bruce Wayne

Batman created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters portrayed in this story are copyright by DC Comics, an AOL/Time/Warner company. They are used without permission for entertainment without profit by the author.

CHAPTER 3

As it did every morning, the sun rose over Gotham City. At stately Wayne Manor, Alfred Pennyworth made sure the televisions in the mansion were tuned to the most popular news program in the city, "The Foster A.M. Report."

The longtime butler of Bruce Wayne was preparing a breakfast of ham and eggs when he turned his attention to the television. On the screen were videotaped highlights of his master's rescue last night at the sporting goods store. He leaned forward and cranked up the volume to catch the middle of Dan Foster's voiceover commentary.

" ... night at dusk. Though police had cordoned off the area, WGBX-TV cameraman Dick Landau managed to take these videotapes with his camera from atop a nearby building.

"Batman, perhaps the most mysterious of Gotham City's costumed vigilantes, arrived on the scene shortly after police ..." The scene shifted to Batman's acrobatic leaps and rolls out of the range of police sharpshooters. Alfred was shocked at how close the Caped Crusader had come to being struck down by a bullet. The picture changed again to an extreme close-up of the front of Sportsarama, showing the brief battle between the Dark Knight and the two thugs in silhouette.

"... and though police sharpshooters fired warning shots at the masked man to warn him away from the scene, Batman managed to enter the store through an air-conditioning duct and subdue the alleged kidnappers in short order. No one was seriously injured, and Charles Beckman, the seventy-three-year-old owner of the store who suffered a heart attack, is reported in stable condition at Mount Sinai Hospital."

Dan Foster, his open gently lined faced set in a somber expression, appeared next on the screen. "I chose this story to close my broadcast this morning, ladies and gentlemen, because it fits in with what I next have to say." His steel-gray eyes stared directly and professionally into the camera. "And that is, this is my last program with WGBX-TV News. Effective immediately, I am resigning from television broadcasting."

Alfred paid closer attention to what the most trusted voice in Gotham City had to say. He turned up the volume even louder in order not to miss what Foster was saying to his audience. "As little more than a reader of news, I do not feel I can accomplish what I think needs to be done. I have, over the years, witnessed much from this seat, become intimate with the most powerful men and women in this city and this country, and I am convinced that I am needed elsewhere. In short, ladies and gentlemen, I feel there is one place in particular I can do the most good, and therefore, I must concentrate all my time and energies there. That, my friends, is in the public service of my home for most of my fifty-seven years."

The television camera zoomed in for a close-up of the newsman. "Therefore, my friends, I have decided to place my name in nomination for the upcoming mayoral primary in Gotham City."

"Camera three, give me a close-up." The director was speaking softly in the hushed darkness of "The Foster A.M. Report" control room, relaying his instructions to the trio of cameras in the well-lit studio beyond the soundproof glass window.

Over one channel of his headset, the director heard the various voices of crewmen and technicians chattering among themselves and him on the mechanics of the show. On the other, the well-known voice of Dan Foster came in loud and clear.

"Crime," the newsman was saying. "Crime is the number one problem and fear of the citizens of Gotham City. As the video of the sporting goods store robbery so clearly illustrates, the people of this city are no longer safe anywhere. It is time this deplorable situation be brought to an end!"

The broadcast monitor, the central monitor that showed the scene being beamed across Gotham City, held the picture of Dan Foster seated behind his desk, hands folded before him.

"Whether last night's robbery was the work of ordinary criminals, or as some police experts have speculated, the masked vigilante called Batman, is irrelevant. The point is this: rampant crime on the streets must end. I hope I will be the man who is able to help this city reach that goal."

"Five seconds to credits," the director said.

"So ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your years of faithful viewings. I hope to be with you still in the years to come." He smiled knowingly into the lens. "Good morning and good luck."

"Roll credits."

Camera two kept its red eye of Foster in a long shot as he shuffled papers meaninglessly on his desk. It wasn't until he heard the director's voice in his earplug saying, "That's a wrap people," and the light on the camera winked out, that he stood. He knew that by the time he reached his dressing room/office two floors above the studio, reporters would be gathering from all the major networks, newspapers, and wire services to interview him. He was, after all, big news.

A lighting technician walked up to Foster and shook the anchorman's hand. "Hey, good luck there, Mister Foster. We're all going to miss working on your program."

Foster slapped the man's back and smiled. "Thanks, Artie. I just hope the crew I get to work on my campaign is half as good as the one I had here." The older man's eyes twinkled in the bright studio lights, leaving no doubt in Artie's mind as to the sincerity of Foster's words. After all the years, Dan Foster knew the power of those steel-gray eyes. They projected honesty and warmth. He was everybody's father.

He shook hands and exchanged small talk with several members of the crew as he strolled casually from the set. The longer he took to reach his office, the longer the newsmen from the nearby stations and newspapers would have to gather in force. News of his resignation from television to seek elected office was of great importance because more people tuned in to watch him all across Gotham City than any other man on the tube.

Even before he had graduated high school in the mid-1960s, Dan Foster was an experienced journalist, working nights and weekends as a stringer -- a freelance reporter -- for the Gotham Post. At seventeen, he was the first reporter to break the story of scandal and corruption in the city's sanitation department. By the time he was twenty, he was hired by United Press International and assigned to their Pacific office on Oahu. There, he covered the Pacific rim for UPI.

Eventually, WGBX radio stole Foster away from the print media. The one thing that cinch the deal to make the transition from print to radio was a pretty young secretary at WGBX named Michelle Marcus.

"Sure, it isn't a great job at WGBX," she told him, "but that's now." It would she assured him, lead to bigger and better things than the wire service could ever hope to offer. Foster decided to trust this girl's instincts. He also decided he was falling in love with her. And, on the eve of his move to radio, they were married.

It didn't take Foster long to make another transition in his career, this time into television news. With a youthful and trusting face, he was soon a fixture in two out of every three Gotham City households. His ratings never flagged in all the years since. Indeed, throughout his more than two decades on television, he managed to accumulate more Emmy Awards than other single person in Gotham history. He was the most respected man in Gotham City broadcasting. His reputation was beyond reproach, or, as one rival programming executive, looking for a way to beat the unbeatable in the ratings war, put it, "The only thing we've been able to pin on Foster so far is sainthood!"

Foster grinned broadly at his reflection in the elevator doors. He was, he had long ago decided, the perfect candidate for anything. He hoped the voters of Gotham City agreed.

He stepped from the elevator down the corridor from his office. A crush of reporters and television cameramen were waiting impatiently for his arrival from the studio, harassing his already harried secretary with questions.

Dan Foster squared his broad shoulders and pasted his most sincere smile on his face. "Gentlemen," he called out to them.

Instantly, cameras and blazing lights were pointed in his direction and anxious reporters rushed to him with pens and microphones poised.

He was on.

^^V^^ ^^V^^ ^^V^^

The studio-owned limousine took Dan Foster to his Robinson Park West condominium and waited at the curb until the newsman was safely inside the lavish lobby. The uniformed doorman smiled, tipping his hat. "Caught your show this morning, Mister Foster. You got my vote, that's for sure."

Foster grinned tiredly. "Thanks, Hank. I can use all I can get." An elevator was waiting in the lobby and, waving good night to the doorman, he stepped inside and pressed the button for the penthouse.

He was exhausted. His day began each morning at 4:30, when he awoke to meet the limo that took him to his 8:00 A.M. appointment with "The Foster A.M. Report." Then, as his program's news editor, he worked through the day before his afternoon nap and preparation for his 6:00 P.M. evening news program. But this day, even though he did not have to work on his evening newscast, had been longer than most, punctuated by impromptu press conferences and numerous calls from the media and his superiors at WGBX-TV. A lengthy meeting with the station's top executives ran through his scheduled nap time (his announcement, coming as a surprise in the middle of his contract-renewal talks, was not well met by them), and by the time he managed to leave the studio, it was past midnight.

All that was on his mind now was a quick shower and sleep.

The elevator opened on the penthouse floor and Foster let himself into the apartment. He didn't bother switching on the lights as he negotiated the spacious living room in the dark. But before he could reach the stairs that led to the upper floor of the duplex apartment, Foster stopped short, the small hairs on his neck bristling.

He felt the presence of someone else in the apartment!

Foster heard the low, steady clucking in the middle of the room and pivoted. He swung around to face ... whoever. He knew it was not his wife, she would of heard him enter and spoken up, and none of the kids was home. Who ...?

"Quack, squawk. Good evening, Mister Foster." A deep, resonant voice pierced the darkness of the room. But Foster relaxed almost instantly. He recognized that voice.

"I should've figured," he said to the small shape seated comfortably on the sofa. The tinge of fear was still in his voice and he realized he had to clasp his hands tightly together to stop their trembling.

The short, stout figure shifted on the sofa. "Mister Shark," he said, "I trust even you are capable of turning on a light without detailed instructions, hmmm?"

A second, much larger man, unnoticed by Foster until now, stood behind the door. He turned on the overhead lights. Foster glanced at him for only a second. The second man was enormous. He stood well over six feet tall and weighed better than three hundred fifty pounds. His completely bald head rose like a flesh-covered mound from his massive shoulders which were covered in a black turtle-neck sweater. His features seemed almost tiny in his fleshy face.

It was the other man he was more interested in. Decked out splendidly in a black tuxedo, the man wore a top hat on his head and his hands held an umbrella.

"What do you want, Penguin?" Foster asked.

The man was indeed the Penguin, leader of Gotham City's most powerful and feared organized-crime gang. He smiled at the newsman, pleased. "I merely wished to congratulate you on your splendid performance this morning, Mister Foster. We were most gratified to see you followed your instructions so faithfully."

Dan Foster started to speak, but held his tongue, fearing that his anger might not stay contained within him. He turned instead to the well-stocked bar set against the wall. As he poured himself a drink, he heard to sofa springs move as Penguin's weight was lifted from it.

"I should like a glass of white wine, my friend."

Foster whirled angrily, no longer able to conceal his anger. "I am not your friend, Penguin," he spat. "And I don't like you coming into my home, either. Maybe I have to work with you, but I sure as hell don't have to socialize with you. That wasn't part of the bargain."

The Penguin waddled calmly up to the bar and took his time choosing an appropriate wine from the selection on the bar. "Perhaps you do not yet completely understand, Mister Foster." He poured half a glass of wine into a brandy snifter, sniffed its delicate bouquet through his oddly-shaped, pointed nose, and turned to look into his host's face. "To begin, we made no bargain. I merely tell you what I expect from you and you make certain it gets done. You do not have any say in any part of what happens, hmmm?"

Foster swallowed hard, unable to hold the short, fat man's steely gaze. The Penguin clucked deep in his throat and sampled the wine, smacking his lips in appreciation. "Delightful," he said.

"Now, Mister Foster, do we understand each other better?"

Foster nodded slowly.

"Excellent, my friend," the crime boss said. "Then I may allow you to speak to your daughter tonight. That would please you, I am sure." The Penguin glanced with a tight smile as the veteran newsman started at the words.

"A-Amy?"

"Indeed, Mister Foster." He snapped his fingers at the man by the door. "Mister Shark!"

The silent man stepped forward and pulled out a cellular phone. He pushed a button and listened for several seconds before handing the phone to Foster, who grasped it with trembling hands.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, baby, it's me. How are you darling?" Foster asked, his voice tight with pent-up emotion. "Are they treating you well, Amy?"

The frightened voice of Foster's sixteen-year-old daughter said, "Yes, Daddy. When can I come home, Daddy?"

Foster squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the small phone so hard his knuckles turned white. It took him several seconds before he could trust his voice to reply to his daughter's plea. "S-soon, baby, I swear to you."

The phone went dead.

Shark took the phone from Foster's hand and returned, unsmiling, to his corner like a dutiful servant.

For long moments Dan Foster stared with flashing, hate-filled eyes at the Penguin. "You ... you ... waddling bird!" he spat. "She's just a baby!"

Penguin laughed and clucked. "Quack, squawk. Nonsense, Mister Foster. Your daughter is sixteen years old, certainly old enough for you to have allowed her to travel unescorted through Europe, and regardless of her age, old enough to be a useful pawn."

Foster ran a hand across his damp forehead. "Europe!" He laughed without humor. "Lord, why'd I ever consent to that damned trip?"

Penguin shrugged and dismissed the subject with a wave of his white gloved hand. "Again, nonsense, my friend. True, her taking the grand tour of the Continent provides a convenient excuse for your daughter's absence, but I assure you, sir, my people would have been able to abduct her regardless of where she was.

"But there is no need for concern, Mister Foster. All you need do to ensure her continued well-being and her eventual return home to the loving bosom of her family is cooperate. If not, I need but utter a single word and ..." Penguin's voice trailed off ominously, leaving no doubt of his sinister intentions. "It is that simple."

Dan Foster's fist clenched and unclenched spasmodically at his sides as he glared at the little man -- this man who had stolen his child from him ... who had stolen his dignity, his self-respect. "How," he said through clenched teeth, the hate fairly choking him, "how in God's name can such scum like you exist?"

The Penguin's bird-like eyes narrowed. He rose slowly from his seat and snapped his fingers. Shark moved to his master's side. The Penguin pointed at the bar next to where Foster stood.

"Watch closely, Foster," the Black Bird of Prey said in a voice so low that the newsman had to strain to her. "We shall do this only once."

Penguin nodded to Shark. The huge henchman faced the solid oak bar, a tight smile on his thick lips. He clenched a single massive fist and raised it over his head. Then, with lightning-fast speed, he brought it down on the polished wood with a thundering crash. Before Dan Foster's eyes, the bar gave way beneath the large man's fist and splintered into a thousand shards.

Suavely shooting his cuffs, Shark turned back to return to his corner.

The Penguin said, "Do not be deceived by our appearances, Foster" All pretense of friendliness was gone from his voice and the newsman stepped back before the verbal onslaught. "And do not think that because I have thus far chosen to deal with you on a Platonic level that I would be adverse to switching to more physical, albeit painful, methods of persuasion. I assure I would not." Penguin returned to the sofa, smiling to himself. His little display of temper and Shark's strength had effectively quieted Foster.

"But if it is necessary for me to remind you of what you are to do, then I shall." Foster was beyond any sort of reply, his will sapped by the criminal mastermind's threats. The Penguin continued: "Foster, for the first time in this city's history, the various heads of the organized-crime families have gathered together with myself as their leader. I do not lie when I say the negotiations leading to this alliance were long and difficult for me and were made at a great personal sacrifice to myself.

"And what, Mister Foster, do you think is the object of this rather unholy alliance?" He leaned forward. "It is to get you, Dan Foster, elected to the office of mayor of Gotham City! Quack, squawk!"

Penguin's eyes shone brightly as he sipped his wine. "It is a brilliant plan," he said warmly. "Brilliant in its sheer simplicity! Imagine, we choose a winning candidate -- a man such as yourself, who cannot lose the election -- and we get him into a position of responsibility over the city's coffers. By the time your first four-year term is up, we will be in complete control over Gotham City, having established a political machine to put the mainstream political crowd to shame.

"And imagine the money, Mister Foster! Imagine the amounts that could be siphoned from the city's treasury, the theft hidden in ledger books to go undiscovered for a decade, at which time my colleagues and myself shall be long gone."

Foster stood stock-still by the shattered bar, his head bowed.

"Come, come, Foster, you have cause for celebration, not sorrow. You are, after all, going to be the next mayor of Gotham City, hmmm?"

"You mean puppet, don't you?"

The man of a thousand umbrellas chuckled and clucked. "Quack, squawk. If you insist, yes. But you have little choice while your daughter is in my hands. Still if your behavior is satisfactory and all goes well by November, your daughter will be returned to you."

The newsman's head snapped up. "Don't taunt me, Penguin," he said. "You know as well as I that you lose your hold over me when I have Amy back here. There'd be nothing to stop me from going to the authorities with what I know."

"Ah, but there would be. You see, when you win the election, you and your family will spend the next four years living in the gunsights of trained killers. Were you to step out of line but once, a member of your family would die in a tragic assassination attempt obviously aimed at you. A second wrong step, and the rest of your family, yourself included, would die." Penguin smiled. "But I trust your excellent judgment, my friend.

"Well." Penguin clapped his hands together. "I thank you for your generous hospitality, Mister Foster, but I really must be going. The hour is quite late and I know you must begin your day early, so good night. Mister Shark!"

The Penguin lifted his body from the sofa with remarkable ease. Shark opened the door for his boss and Penguin left the veteran newsman to his own dark thoughts.

Suddenly, Dan Foster felt like a very old man.

To be continued ...