Chapter 5
The Restful Palms Motel, Gotham, the following day
It was 10.13am when the body was found. A cleaner had started her rounds early, and she ran screaming from the room moments after entering.
It was 10.22 when the first police car arrived on the scene, closely followed by an ambulance.
It was 10.40 when Commissioner James Gordon arrived to oversee the crime scene personally.
It was 10.41 when Gordon cleared the room. He didn't give a reason and those who knew him didn't ask. Many had suspicions, but no one voiced them, if James Gordon says stay out, you assumed there was a good reason for it.
At 10.42 James Gordon entered the room alone.
He took a moment to look at the body, which had not yet been moved beyond the Paramedic checking for vital signs. He shook his head before making a promise he had made a hundred times before; "I'm so sorry son, we will get whoever did this to you."
He was not at all surprised to hear a voice beside him.
"We will, Jim."
"I figured you'd want a look round the scene while it was fresh. Been here long?"
"Just after the ambulance. I could see there was nothing I could do with all the people around."
" 'These people' are professionals. All of them trained, all of them just as committed to fining this lunatic as you are."
"I know. You know I didn't mean it like that Jim."
"If I thought you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I knew you wouldn't miss a second victim, even if it means risking the daylight hours. You have five minutes, that's all I can spare."
The dark figure was already in motion, moving around the room as silently as a shadow. He removed his cape so as not to disturb the evidence with it swirling around him.
Even as a trained Policeman Gordon was fascinated. With Batman there was an economy of movement, as well as an intensity of concentration, which transcended any investigator he'd ever seen.
Within the legend the cape created, the all too human man was working, noting, collate data, trying to establish patterns without making assumptions.
He noted the boy's clothes, left in a crumpled heap presumably where he'd left them after removing them. He checked them for size, make and general condition. He examined them for any trace of dust or peculiar particulates. He went carefully through all the pockets, checking for identification of any sort and found none. He looked for any personal effects and found a half empty packet of cigarettes, noting the brand. He also found a wallet, which apart from small change, contained one hundred and fifty dollars in immaculately clean, non-consecutive bills. It also contained a picture of a boy who was probably the one lying dead on the bed, though several years younger, and with a man and women who were probably his parents. None of them looked especially happy in the picture.
There was no evidence the shower or bath had been used. The toilet still had it's paper cover on it. He noted the absence of any personal effects anywhere in the motel room, the boy had not come to spend the night in any traditional sense. He even noted that the occupant had left the complementary shampoos and soaps that everyone takes almost on reflex.
He noted the victim was a Caucasian male in his early to mid teens, still wearing briefs. There was no obvious evidence of sexual intercourse having taken place. He noted the type of rope used, the knots that had been tied and the appearance of the ends of the rope. He examined the injuries to the eye sockets and the remains of the eyes left on the dresser, and made an estimate to the weapons size and shape. He took photos with an elaborate looking, but compact, camera from his belt. He was careful not to touch anything, or if he did he moved it back to precisely the same position afterwards.
He noticed that the coffee making facilities had been unused but that there were three drinks missing from the honour bar; One cola, one bottle of Ancient Mariner Rum, and a Braulich beer. All the bottles were still in the room and there were two used glasses. He noticed that someone had even left the exact amount on top of the honour bar to pay for the drinks. That disturbed him deeply, more than almost any other piece of evidence, it implied a controlled, thoughtful aspect to this murderer, which put him went beyond the merely warped and into the truly nightmarish.
Whilst his eyes were noting all this, his hands were almost moving by themselves, taking small samples from here and there, storing them away in meticulous order in a small case he had brought with him for the purpose. Never taking an entire sample, always leaving enough for the CSI team. He had no wish to render their work useless.
As the end of the five minutes approached, Gordon risked speaking again. "The FBI will be sending a team round sometime today to check the scene out. Federal case and everything."
Batman didn't even look up from the test tube he was gently laying carpet fibres within. "Any chance they'll get in the way?"
"Not likely, the agents we'll be getting know how Gotham operates, as long as they get a result of some sort, they'll be okay. Be grateful it's not going to be that flake Mulder again, spent more time hunting for you than he did for the Copperhead. I've called in a few favours. He won't be back."
"A shame, he seemed to be an excellent profiler, if a little prone to the bizarre but, as you say, he did tend to get in my way."
"And will you share what you find out with us on this occasion."
"Of course, all the results of my tests, as usual. And Jim…thank you again for the time."
"I wish to God you didn't need it, but I never waste a resour.." but of course, by this time, the room was empty apart from Gordon again. Gordon didn't even waste time imagining how he had got out.
As he went to the door and gestured for the CSI team and the Coroner to enter no-one, not even the newly arrived news-crews, noticed the cleaning lady who exited the room three doors down, nor the fact that her face was slightly obscured and that she seemed to be inordinately tall. She pushed her trolley just slowly enough not to attract attention, but if any enterprising reporter had thought to follow her around the corner between the buildings of the motel, they would have been unable to find any trace of her, apart from an abandoned cleaning trolley near a manhole cover.
The Restful Palms Motel, Gotham, the following day
It was 10.13am when the body was found. A cleaner had started her rounds early, and she ran screaming from the room moments after entering.
It was 10.22 when the first police car arrived on the scene, closely followed by an ambulance.
It was 10.40 when Commissioner James Gordon arrived to oversee the crime scene personally.
It was 10.41 when Gordon cleared the room. He didn't give a reason and those who knew him didn't ask. Many had suspicions, but no one voiced them, if James Gordon says stay out, you assumed there was a good reason for it.
At 10.42 James Gordon entered the room alone.
He took a moment to look at the body, which had not yet been moved beyond the Paramedic checking for vital signs. He shook his head before making a promise he had made a hundred times before; "I'm so sorry son, we will get whoever did this to you."
He was not at all surprised to hear a voice beside him.
"We will, Jim."
"I figured you'd want a look round the scene while it was fresh. Been here long?"
"Just after the ambulance. I could see there was nothing I could do with all the people around."
" 'These people' are professionals. All of them trained, all of them just as committed to fining this lunatic as you are."
"I know. You know I didn't mean it like that Jim."
"If I thought you did, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I knew you wouldn't miss a second victim, even if it means risking the daylight hours. You have five minutes, that's all I can spare."
The dark figure was already in motion, moving around the room as silently as a shadow. He removed his cape so as not to disturb the evidence with it swirling around him.
Even as a trained Policeman Gordon was fascinated. With Batman there was an economy of movement, as well as an intensity of concentration, which transcended any investigator he'd ever seen.
Within the legend the cape created, the all too human man was working, noting, collate data, trying to establish patterns without making assumptions.
He noted the boy's clothes, left in a crumpled heap presumably where he'd left them after removing them. He checked them for size, make and general condition. He examined them for any trace of dust or peculiar particulates. He went carefully through all the pockets, checking for identification of any sort and found none. He looked for any personal effects and found a half empty packet of cigarettes, noting the brand. He also found a wallet, which apart from small change, contained one hundred and fifty dollars in immaculately clean, non-consecutive bills. It also contained a picture of a boy who was probably the one lying dead on the bed, though several years younger, and with a man and women who were probably his parents. None of them looked especially happy in the picture.
There was no evidence the shower or bath had been used. The toilet still had it's paper cover on it. He noted the absence of any personal effects anywhere in the motel room, the boy had not come to spend the night in any traditional sense. He even noted that the occupant had left the complementary shampoos and soaps that everyone takes almost on reflex.
He noted the victim was a Caucasian male in his early to mid teens, still wearing briefs. There was no obvious evidence of sexual intercourse having taken place. He noted the type of rope used, the knots that had been tied and the appearance of the ends of the rope. He examined the injuries to the eye sockets and the remains of the eyes left on the dresser, and made an estimate to the weapons size and shape. He took photos with an elaborate looking, but compact, camera from his belt. He was careful not to touch anything, or if he did he moved it back to precisely the same position afterwards.
He noticed that the coffee making facilities had been unused but that there were three drinks missing from the honour bar; One cola, one bottle of Ancient Mariner Rum, and a Braulich beer. All the bottles were still in the room and there were two used glasses. He noticed that someone had even left the exact amount on top of the honour bar to pay for the drinks. That disturbed him deeply, more than almost any other piece of evidence, it implied a controlled, thoughtful aspect to this murderer, which put him went beyond the merely warped and into the truly nightmarish.
Whilst his eyes were noting all this, his hands were almost moving by themselves, taking small samples from here and there, storing them away in meticulous order in a small case he had brought with him for the purpose. Never taking an entire sample, always leaving enough for the CSI team. He had no wish to render their work useless.
As the end of the five minutes approached, Gordon risked speaking again. "The FBI will be sending a team round sometime today to check the scene out. Federal case and everything."
Batman didn't even look up from the test tube he was gently laying carpet fibres within. "Any chance they'll get in the way?"
"Not likely, the agents we'll be getting know how Gotham operates, as long as they get a result of some sort, they'll be okay. Be grateful it's not going to be that flake Mulder again, spent more time hunting for you than he did for the Copperhead. I've called in a few favours. He won't be back."
"A shame, he seemed to be an excellent profiler, if a little prone to the bizarre but, as you say, he did tend to get in my way."
"And will you share what you find out with us on this occasion."
"Of course, all the results of my tests, as usual. And Jim…thank you again for the time."
"I wish to God you didn't need it, but I never waste a resour.." but of course, by this time, the room was empty apart from Gordon again. Gordon didn't even waste time imagining how he had got out.
As he went to the door and gestured for the CSI team and the Coroner to enter no-one, not even the newly arrived news-crews, noticed the cleaning lady who exited the room three doors down, nor the fact that her face was slightly obscured and that she seemed to be inordinately tall. She pushed her trolley just slowly enough not to attract attention, but if any enterprising reporter had thought to follow her around the corner between the buildings of the motel, they would have been unable to find any trace of her, apart from an abandoned cleaning trolley near a manhole cover.