Chapter 6
Gotham, same day
There had been a news blackout on all media, which guaranteed, of course, that rumours had been all over the school by lunchtime. Proving, once again, that the best way to spread information to people who aren't supposed to know is to close the official channels.
By the time the official story was released, Dick had heard four different variants on the story of the boy found dead in a Gotham motel with his eyes cut out. These ranged from him being a famed child film star, currently riding high on the box office charts, to a member of a boyband fallen on hard times, to his being a fellow student of Gotham High. Of course no names were mentioned in that last version and it was never anyone who was in the person telling the story's class, but such is the way of urban myth.
Dick has used his lunch break to let Bruce know about the goings on via the concealed radio he always carried, only to find out of course, that Batman knew already. Dick had to admit that for a guy who was so cut off from things during the day, his resources were impressive.
Even for Gothamites, who were inured to bizarre forms of death more than probably any other American city, these murders were something singular, disturbing, new. Perhaps it was the individual nature of the deaths. It was easier to become "used" to death when it comes in Joker sized helpings, but single murders were so much more… real, more personal
When he got back from school, Dick broke the rules and went straight down to the cave. He wasn't surprised to find Bruce sitting in front of the crime lab, in costume with the cowl pulled down, so that he could look through his microscope more clearly.
At the same time he was on a headset phone, using his rarely heard "I may be a playboy millionaire but I am not to be trifled with" voice;
"Mr Hendricks, I frankly don't care about the cost. If no one claims the body, I expect the Wayne Foundation to fund the cost of a decent burial for the boy, as is our custom."
There was a pause and though he couldn't hear a word of it Dick was sure he could hear someone on the other end digging their own professional grave.
After a moment Bruce continued. "Hendricks, I am not in the habit of giving explanations for my actions to those who wish to continue in my employ, but as you are new to the organisation, and it is clearly a concept past your conception, I shall make an exception. My reason is simple, I do not wish any child who dies by violence in this city to go to a paupers grave, it would be an unseemly reflection on our society, and I choose not to permit it whilst my circumstances allow. Now, I have made my expectations clear and I expect my wishes to be acted upon. Good day."
Hanging up, Bruce leaned over and hit a speed dial number on his phone, at the same time keying something on the computer terminal beside him.
This time his voice was more like the playboy Bruce, but not totally. Dick and Alfred had once sat down and itemised the distinct modes of speech that Bruce and Batman used between them. They'd given up when they reached eighteen. How he managed to keep them all straight in his head was anyone's guess.
"Lucius? Bruce. Hendricks in Accounts seems to be having trouble settling in. He had the audacity to question one of my decisions. No, I'm not asking you to fire him… he has a wife and three children and his works seems to be generally adequate, but I do expect him to be warned of the cost of arguing with the boss because he thinks he's a soft touch. Thanks Lucius.", his voice shifted again, rising a few notes, "By the way, I'm feeling a little bored, golf on Thursday? 10.30? Great." The finger stabbed out again and broke the connection.
Without looking up Bruce spoke aloud this time using voice number 11; Parental authority figure "And what are you doing here now, Dick?"
"Well with this other murder, inside Gotham itself, I thought you could use some…" he paused, realising that Hendricks wasn't the only one risking professional suicide. "Backup support in the cave?"
"Nice try Dick, but you know the deal. 'Homework first,.."
"..beating up deranged psychopaths later', Yes I know, but this case is.."
"One I have told you you are not getting involved with."
Dick sighed, this _was_ going to be a tough one. But any case where he said he didn't want Robin around was, in his experience, exactly the sort of case where he needed to have Robin around. Of course, Bruce would never see it like that, nor would Gordon, Alfred perhaps, but he'd be too concerned for Dick's welfare to admit it, least of all to Bruce. A retreat now might pay off in the longer run, Dick reasoned.
"Sure, sure. I'll see you later then."
It was two and a half hours later when Robin returned to the cave, this time fully suited up. Batman appeared not to have moved.
"Okay, what have we got?"
Batman gave him a look.
"What? All right, what have YOU got. You say I can't follow you around on this case, fine, that doesn't mean I can't help out with the background work. The analysis."
Batman sighed, maybe a fresh perspective might help, but not right now. There were other priorities, and frankly, he needed a bit of a break from lab work himself.
"Before you get carried away with your powers of deduction, Boy Wonder, it's training time."
The pair of them proceeded to the workout area, basically an open stretch of cave with exercise equipment and minimal crash-mats. There was also an array of hand weapons for training purposes.
From one of these arrays, Batman pulled out a plastic knife, which Robin recognised as a theatrical prop, designed to leave a red, bloodlike trail where it touched something solid.
Batman was quite methodical, "The object of this exercise is to remove the knife from my hand, without getting touched by the blade, and without allowing me to injure either yourself, or myself. Either event will lead to a failing grade. You may not use any implement from your utility belt."
Without a pause Batman dived towards Robin swinging the blade wildly and shouting incoherently at the top of his lungs, as if he were genuinely crazed.
Robin sidestepped the blade easily, jumping up and striking out at Batman's knee with one foot, whilst catching Batman on the knife arm's elbow with his fist.
Batman's arm fell limp as he fell his knees, the knife dropping to the ground beside him. Robin knew the blows wouldn't have really hurt him, but Batman had had stuntman training at one time, and could fake many different attacks.
"Good, if you're dealing with a mindless thug that would do nicely. Now let's try something a little more sophisticated.
As if he hadn't been touched by Robin's blows, Batman picked up the knife again and instantly the knife started to flicker in Batman's hand as he wove it in and around like a street fighter. He started to circle around Robin, the knife darting backwards and forwards as he started taunting.
"C'mon little birdie, let's see whether you got dark meat or white meat."
Robin could never get used to that, he was no mean mimic himself, but he couldn't switch the body language of another personality on and off the way Batman could. Every move he made spoke of a cocky street punk, used to winning fights with his preferred weapon.
Robin, though, recalled the cardinal rules of such situations. Watch the eyes, not the knife, and don't listen to a word they're saying. He circled too, waiting for the slightest opening…
And so it continued for another fifteen minutes, attack style after attack style, from trained mob iceman to amphetamine freak convinced his opponent was a demon incarnate. Many styles were needed, and Robin was trained in nearly all of them. Those that he wasn't he managed to improvise through.
And then Batman broke off, and gave the all-clear signal to Robin, crossing his fists in front of him and nodding his head sharply.
"Those were some good moves Dick. No the ones I might have gone for myself, but effective nonetheless."
Batman draped a friendly arm over his shoulder and started to steer him off the training mat Almost without thinking Robin sent his elbow crashing into Batman's wrist, ducked down, spun on one heel and, catching him just behind the knees, knocked Batman legs from under him, . The knife clattered out of Bruce's hand.
"Why did you do that?" Batman asked in an almost hurt tone. Robin wasn't fooled
"You called me Dick, not Robin, that meant this was an assumed pose and the exercise wasn't over."
Batman nodded, "Excellent work Robin, and a good disarm, but I'm afraid that you still lost."
Robin frowned "How? I made you drop the knife before it could touch me."
"Look at your shoulder."
Robin looked down and saw a line of red paint just below his collar. He glared up at Batman, who produced a second, thinner blade, hidden in the palm of the hand that had been a round Robin's shoulder.
"I said you had to disarm me, I didn't say I'd stick to one weapon at a time."
"That was cold, even for you."
"Just teaching you that trust is a rare gift, and should never, ever be taken for granted. Suppose the Mad Hatter had been controlling me."
Robin still gave him a dirty look behind his mask. "I know trust is rare, but maybe you might try showing it every once in a while. And, by the way, the use of knives in this exercise was in no way an attempt to dissuade me from getting persisting in getting involved in a case where the suspect uses a knife on kids my age?"
Anyone other than Robin or Alfred probably wouldn't have noticed the slight shift in the mask that indicated that Batman had raised his eyebrows behind his cowl. Robin guessed that Bruce hadn't consciously made the choice, or if he had was hiding it better than usual.
As often happened when a question came close to the bone, Batman ignored it.
"I don't have time to deal with sulking, Robin. And since you didn't pass the first test you know what that means?"
"Oh no!"
"Oh yes … POP QUIZ!" There was almost a malevolent tone in Batman's voice.
Robin groaned. This was one of the worst parts of Batman's training regime. Ten minutes of quick-fire questions at the same time as weight training, with a thirty second exercise penalty for each incorrect question, such sessions had been known to last three quarters of an hour, which would have been enough to lay low an Olympic athlete
Apart from allowing Robin to change from his currently clean costume into sweats (no point making more dry cleaning work for Alfred), Batman wasted no time in starting, spotting Robin as he lifted the dumbbells.
"Element represented by Hg?"
"Mercury"
"Capital of North Dakota?"
"Bismark!"
"Superman's major weaknesses?"
"Kryptonite and magic. Though you probably count honour and decency too."
"Correct, but a 100 yard dash in under eight seconds penalty within the next two days, for sarcasm."
Robin groaned.
And so it went on, more and more questions filling the air, and trying to concentrate on answers whilst the weights went up and down, and up and down. By the five minute mark Robin's arms felt like wet string, but still he kept going.
"Sequence of lights at a traffic signal?"
"Colours of the waistcoat Alfred was wearing on Wednesday?"
"Chemical formula for TNT?"
"Correct procedure for a standard autopsy?"
And so this exercise continued too, until….
"Why is a raven like a writing desk?
"Because…. Because…? Because "
"Want to give it a guess?"
"You always say 'Don't guess if you don't know.', and I don't know"
"Good, that's a satisfactory answer, and a good time to end the quiz. You did well."
From Batman that was close to gushing endorsement, but Dick knew better than to react.
"Now get cleaned up, we have a busy night ahead. I need some lab work done, we have to see Gordon with the results I've pulled together and then we have a social call to make before we go on normal patrol."
As Robin moved off to shower and change he paused and turned back.
"Okay, I have to ask, why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?"
Batman shrugged, "I don't know either. It's a quote from Alice in Wonderland, and it doesn't have an answer, Carrol never wrote one for it in the book., though many people have offered suggestions."
"The thing to bear in mind about it Robin, is that not everything has a clear cut answer or solution, even if it looks like it might and no matter how hard you look. Bear that in mind when dealing with the type of people we do."
"Thus endeth the lesson?"
"Thus endeth the lesson."
Robin turned away again, but turned back one more time,
"We're going on a _social_ call? Where too?"
"McSurley's."
Robin stopped dead in his tracks and looked at the retreating back of his guardian who was heading back to the science lab.
"You're kidding, right?"
Gotham, same day
There had been a news blackout on all media, which guaranteed, of course, that rumours had been all over the school by lunchtime. Proving, once again, that the best way to spread information to people who aren't supposed to know is to close the official channels.
By the time the official story was released, Dick had heard four different variants on the story of the boy found dead in a Gotham motel with his eyes cut out. These ranged from him being a famed child film star, currently riding high on the box office charts, to a member of a boyband fallen on hard times, to his being a fellow student of Gotham High. Of course no names were mentioned in that last version and it was never anyone who was in the person telling the story's class, but such is the way of urban myth.
Dick has used his lunch break to let Bruce know about the goings on via the concealed radio he always carried, only to find out of course, that Batman knew already. Dick had to admit that for a guy who was so cut off from things during the day, his resources were impressive.
Even for Gothamites, who were inured to bizarre forms of death more than probably any other American city, these murders were something singular, disturbing, new. Perhaps it was the individual nature of the deaths. It was easier to become "used" to death when it comes in Joker sized helpings, but single murders were so much more… real, more personal
When he got back from school, Dick broke the rules and went straight down to the cave. He wasn't surprised to find Bruce sitting in front of the crime lab, in costume with the cowl pulled down, so that he could look through his microscope more clearly.
At the same time he was on a headset phone, using his rarely heard "I may be a playboy millionaire but I am not to be trifled with" voice;
"Mr Hendricks, I frankly don't care about the cost. If no one claims the body, I expect the Wayne Foundation to fund the cost of a decent burial for the boy, as is our custom."
There was a pause and though he couldn't hear a word of it Dick was sure he could hear someone on the other end digging their own professional grave.
After a moment Bruce continued. "Hendricks, I am not in the habit of giving explanations for my actions to those who wish to continue in my employ, but as you are new to the organisation, and it is clearly a concept past your conception, I shall make an exception. My reason is simple, I do not wish any child who dies by violence in this city to go to a paupers grave, it would be an unseemly reflection on our society, and I choose not to permit it whilst my circumstances allow. Now, I have made my expectations clear and I expect my wishes to be acted upon. Good day."
Hanging up, Bruce leaned over and hit a speed dial number on his phone, at the same time keying something on the computer terminal beside him.
This time his voice was more like the playboy Bruce, but not totally. Dick and Alfred had once sat down and itemised the distinct modes of speech that Bruce and Batman used between them. They'd given up when they reached eighteen. How he managed to keep them all straight in his head was anyone's guess.
"Lucius? Bruce. Hendricks in Accounts seems to be having trouble settling in. He had the audacity to question one of my decisions. No, I'm not asking you to fire him… he has a wife and three children and his works seems to be generally adequate, but I do expect him to be warned of the cost of arguing with the boss because he thinks he's a soft touch. Thanks Lucius.", his voice shifted again, rising a few notes, "By the way, I'm feeling a little bored, golf on Thursday? 10.30? Great." The finger stabbed out again and broke the connection.
Without looking up Bruce spoke aloud this time using voice number 11; Parental authority figure "And what are you doing here now, Dick?"
"Well with this other murder, inside Gotham itself, I thought you could use some…" he paused, realising that Hendricks wasn't the only one risking professional suicide. "Backup support in the cave?"
"Nice try Dick, but you know the deal. 'Homework first,.."
"..beating up deranged psychopaths later', Yes I know, but this case is.."
"One I have told you you are not getting involved with."
Dick sighed, this _was_ going to be a tough one. But any case where he said he didn't want Robin around was, in his experience, exactly the sort of case where he needed to have Robin around. Of course, Bruce would never see it like that, nor would Gordon, Alfred perhaps, but he'd be too concerned for Dick's welfare to admit it, least of all to Bruce. A retreat now might pay off in the longer run, Dick reasoned.
"Sure, sure. I'll see you later then."
It was two and a half hours later when Robin returned to the cave, this time fully suited up. Batman appeared not to have moved.
"Okay, what have we got?"
Batman gave him a look.
"What? All right, what have YOU got. You say I can't follow you around on this case, fine, that doesn't mean I can't help out with the background work. The analysis."
Batman sighed, maybe a fresh perspective might help, but not right now. There were other priorities, and frankly, he needed a bit of a break from lab work himself.
"Before you get carried away with your powers of deduction, Boy Wonder, it's training time."
The pair of them proceeded to the workout area, basically an open stretch of cave with exercise equipment and minimal crash-mats. There was also an array of hand weapons for training purposes.
From one of these arrays, Batman pulled out a plastic knife, which Robin recognised as a theatrical prop, designed to leave a red, bloodlike trail where it touched something solid.
Batman was quite methodical, "The object of this exercise is to remove the knife from my hand, without getting touched by the blade, and without allowing me to injure either yourself, or myself. Either event will lead to a failing grade. You may not use any implement from your utility belt."
Without a pause Batman dived towards Robin swinging the blade wildly and shouting incoherently at the top of his lungs, as if he were genuinely crazed.
Robin sidestepped the blade easily, jumping up and striking out at Batman's knee with one foot, whilst catching Batman on the knife arm's elbow with his fist.
Batman's arm fell limp as he fell his knees, the knife dropping to the ground beside him. Robin knew the blows wouldn't have really hurt him, but Batman had had stuntman training at one time, and could fake many different attacks.
"Good, if you're dealing with a mindless thug that would do nicely. Now let's try something a little more sophisticated.
As if he hadn't been touched by Robin's blows, Batman picked up the knife again and instantly the knife started to flicker in Batman's hand as he wove it in and around like a street fighter. He started to circle around Robin, the knife darting backwards and forwards as he started taunting.
"C'mon little birdie, let's see whether you got dark meat or white meat."
Robin could never get used to that, he was no mean mimic himself, but he couldn't switch the body language of another personality on and off the way Batman could. Every move he made spoke of a cocky street punk, used to winning fights with his preferred weapon.
Robin, though, recalled the cardinal rules of such situations. Watch the eyes, not the knife, and don't listen to a word they're saying. He circled too, waiting for the slightest opening…
And so it continued for another fifteen minutes, attack style after attack style, from trained mob iceman to amphetamine freak convinced his opponent was a demon incarnate. Many styles were needed, and Robin was trained in nearly all of them. Those that he wasn't he managed to improvise through.
And then Batman broke off, and gave the all-clear signal to Robin, crossing his fists in front of him and nodding his head sharply.
"Those were some good moves Dick. No the ones I might have gone for myself, but effective nonetheless."
Batman draped a friendly arm over his shoulder and started to steer him off the training mat Almost without thinking Robin sent his elbow crashing into Batman's wrist, ducked down, spun on one heel and, catching him just behind the knees, knocked Batman legs from under him, . The knife clattered out of Bruce's hand.
"Why did you do that?" Batman asked in an almost hurt tone. Robin wasn't fooled
"You called me Dick, not Robin, that meant this was an assumed pose and the exercise wasn't over."
Batman nodded, "Excellent work Robin, and a good disarm, but I'm afraid that you still lost."
Robin frowned "How? I made you drop the knife before it could touch me."
"Look at your shoulder."
Robin looked down and saw a line of red paint just below his collar. He glared up at Batman, who produced a second, thinner blade, hidden in the palm of the hand that had been a round Robin's shoulder.
"I said you had to disarm me, I didn't say I'd stick to one weapon at a time."
"That was cold, even for you."
"Just teaching you that trust is a rare gift, and should never, ever be taken for granted. Suppose the Mad Hatter had been controlling me."
Robin still gave him a dirty look behind his mask. "I know trust is rare, but maybe you might try showing it every once in a while. And, by the way, the use of knives in this exercise was in no way an attempt to dissuade me from getting persisting in getting involved in a case where the suspect uses a knife on kids my age?"
Anyone other than Robin or Alfred probably wouldn't have noticed the slight shift in the mask that indicated that Batman had raised his eyebrows behind his cowl. Robin guessed that Bruce hadn't consciously made the choice, or if he had was hiding it better than usual.
As often happened when a question came close to the bone, Batman ignored it.
"I don't have time to deal with sulking, Robin. And since you didn't pass the first test you know what that means?"
"Oh no!"
"Oh yes … POP QUIZ!" There was almost a malevolent tone in Batman's voice.
Robin groaned. This was one of the worst parts of Batman's training regime. Ten minutes of quick-fire questions at the same time as weight training, with a thirty second exercise penalty for each incorrect question, such sessions had been known to last three quarters of an hour, which would have been enough to lay low an Olympic athlete
Apart from allowing Robin to change from his currently clean costume into sweats (no point making more dry cleaning work for Alfred), Batman wasted no time in starting, spotting Robin as he lifted the dumbbells.
"Element represented by Hg?"
"Mercury"
"Capital of North Dakota?"
"Bismark!"
"Superman's major weaknesses?"
"Kryptonite and magic. Though you probably count honour and decency too."
"Correct, but a 100 yard dash in under eight seconds penalty within the next two days, for sarcasm."
Robin groaned.
And so it went on, more and more questions filling the air, and trying to concentrate on answers whilst the weights went up and down, and up and down. By the five minute mark Robin's arms felt like wet string, but still he kept going.
"Sequence of lights at a traffic signal?"
"Colours of the waistcoat Alfred was wearing on Wednesday?"
"Chemical formula for TNT?"
"Correct procedure for a standard autopsy?"
And so this exercise continued too, until….
"Why is a raven like a writing desk?
"Because…. Because…? Because "
"Want to give it a guess?"
"You always say 'Don't guess if you don't know.', and I don't know"
"Good, that's a satisfactory answer, and a good time to end the quiz. You did well."
From Batman that was close to gushing endorsement, but Dick knew better than to react.
"Now get cleaned up, we have a busy night ahead. I need some lab work done, we have to see Gordon with the results I've pulled together and then we have a social call to make before we go on normal patrol."
As Robin moved off to shower and change he paused and turned back.
"Okay, I have to ask, why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?"
Batman shrugged, "I don't know either. It's a quote from Alice in Wonderland, and it doesn't have an answer, Carrol never wrote one for it in the book., though many people have offered suggestions."
"The thing to bear in mind about it Robin, is that not everything has a clear cut answer or solution, even if it looks like it might and no matter how hard you look. Bear that in mind when dealing with the type of people we do."
"Thus endeth the lesson?"
"Thus endeth the lesson."
Robin turned away again, but turned back one more time,
"We're going on a _social_ call? Where too?"
"McSurley's."
Robin stopped dead in his tracks and looked at the retreating back of his guardian who was heading back to the science lab.
"You're kidding, right?"