The crime made a splash even in hard-bitten Gotham City. The victim,
a pretty seventeen-year-old blond girl, was found underneath a pile of
garbage in the back of a filthy alley. She had been severely beaten and
sexually assaulted. The coroner's report found a high level of Rohypnol, a
date rape drug, in the girl's system. She had died of massive internal
bleeding sustained in a vicious prolonged violent attack. It had not been
an easy death. Expert testimony indicated she had lain in the dirt and
trash for hours, slowly dying and unable to cry out for help. Alone.
She was my daughter.
Her name was Amanda Roberts. An honor student, a champion debater, and a passable soccer player. More than that, she was the light of my life, and I loved her more than anything on this earth. My wife, Kim, and I were worried when Amanda did not come home that last night. When the police knocked on our door, I steeled myself for bad news, but nothing can prepare you for the news that your child is dead. The messenger, a Sergeant Myers, had the look of someone who had done this far too often. He stood there, uncomfortable with his hat in his hands, and tried to answer our stunned questions. Able to escape after an eternity, he left us shattered in a colorless world of grief.
Kim was a mess in the following days, and I was barely functional. It rained the day of the funeral, which felt appropriate somehow. I buried my girl in the mud, and then I wept.
I was left in a gray haze until Mark Lewis, the youth pastor of our church filed by at the end of the service. He took my hand and told me to pray to God for comfort. As he finished, I felt something for the first time in days. White anger surged through my body, and I crushed Mark's hand in my grip.
"I'm not talking to that sonofabitch," I said. "I've got no use for Him after what He allowed to happen to Amanda." Mark looked like I had punched him in the stomach with a sledgehammer. I felt sorry later, after everything was over. Mark was a good kid, and did not deserve the venom I spewed at him.
The Gotham police, overworked and underpaid, were finally able to break the case using the latest in forensic science. They arrested three men after a lengthy investigation. The district attorney's office was confident of getting a conviction, but warned us that the wheels of justice grind slowly. It was months before the actual trial began. During the wait, Kim suffered a nervous breakdown. The doctor placed her on medications and suggested she see a psychiatrist. She did, but nothing seemed to help much.
Before the trial started, the fresh-faced assistant D.A. in charge of the case told me that a favorite tactic of the defense in cases like this was to try and smear the victim in the eyes of the jury, and that I should prepare myself for that. I did not worry about it, Amanda was a good kid, and I told him so. He just gave me a strange look and walked away.
The three men accused of brutalizing and killing Amanda were not ordinary street thugs. Two of them, Brian Martin and Eddie Denman, were flunkies of the third, Manny Sanchez. He was a mid-level operative in one of Gotham's many gangs, Los Latinos. His connections were able to secure the services of a high-priced defense lawyer. From the outset of the proceedings, it was clear the state was outclassed. The defense ran rings around the D.A. They produced alibis, cast doubt on the evidence and had the defendants testify under oath proclaiming their innocence. All of that I could bear, with difficulty. But when they began to dismantle Amanda's character, it was too much. The terrible things they said about her, the lies and insinuations. I felt a white-hot poker of rage slowly push itself through my skull. Amanda's memory was all I had left, and this scum were trying to tear that last bit of her to shreds as a matter of public record. I was shaking by the end of the testimony. The punks gave me a hard stare when they were escorted out of the court. I glared back at them with the same intensity with an extra dollop of hatred thrown in for free.
The days groaned by, one after another, and I could see the case slipping away, but I never thought the jury would return a not guilty verdict. When those two words fell from the foreman's lips, my heart sank and despair lapped at he edges of my mind. There was a stark contrast between my reaction and the defendants. They smiled and slapped hands, relief pouring off of them in waves as they prepared to walk out of the courtroom as free men. I watched them, and something new was born inside of me. A dark and twisted thing took root. It began to whisper of blood and vengeance. And I listened.
A couple of sleepless days later, I took down an old dusty box from the top shelf of my closet. Inside was a .45 caliber semi-automatic, a relic of my days in the service. I had not seen it for fifteen years, but I welcomed it like an old friend.
Day slowly bled into night, and I found myself driving toward The Wolf Den, a nightclub in which Sanchez owned a partial interest. You'd be surprised what you could learn at a criminal trial. I cruised around until I found a parking space facing the front of the place. I sat and waited, my fingers playing over the gun while my eyes kept glancing over at a picture of Amanda I had taped to the dash of the car.
I was nervous, but committed to a course of action I would normally never consider. Time ticked over, dragging a new day screaming after the old, complete with shouts, shots and sirens. In the early hours, my patience was rewarded. Denman, Martin and Sanchez all exited the club, laughing and carousing with a group of like-minded revelers. Ice gripped my guts, and I slipped the gun into my jacket pocket. My hand caressed the warm metal of the gun as I got out of the car and walked toward the small crowd. I wore a hat pulled low over my brow, and no one took any notice of me until I was close enough to see the eyes of the three men I was going to kill.
I slid the gun out of my pocket and held it up, the muzzle pointing at the gaggle of befuddled people before me. A firearm commands instant attention. Once it's presence registered, eyes went wide and several gasps could be heard as the forward momentum of ten people stopped dead in its tracks.
"Everyone can leave, except for the three bastards who killed my daughter," I said. My voice didn't crack, but a small tremor ran down through the arm holding the gun. The others scattered, leaving me face to face with the killers who had torn apart my world with callous evil and mean intentions.
"Hey, man," said Sanchez. "You can't do this. We're innocent." If he thought that argument was going to sway me, he was sadly mistaken, although in a few moments it wouldn't matter. Martin began to sidle off to the side, trying to get around my aim.
"Don't you fucking move," I snarled. "I know what you three worthless bags of shit did, and now you're going to pay." Martin turned pale as a ghost. My finger tightened on the trigger.
Suddenly, a shadowy figure dropped down in front of me. I had been so focused on my prey that I had no idea where he had come from. The pool of darkness rose, and I found myself staring at the near mythical symbol of The Bat. He stood squarely between my intended victims and me.
"Mr. Roberts," he said. "Put down that gun. Don't do this."
"No," I said, not meeting his gaze. "You don't know what they've done. What they took from me."
"I do know," he replied. "And I'm sorry." I looked up at him then. I don't know what I expected to see, but it wasn't the bone deep sadness that emanated from his eyes. At some point, I knew he had suffered a tragedy similar to the one I was living. "You're a good man," he said to me. "Don't lower yourself to the level of these animals. Amanda would not want you to end up like this." The gun sagged toward the ground, and my shoulders slumped in hopelessness.
The three men behind him turned to run. I never saw anyone move the way he did. Sanchez and his accomplices didn't have a chance. Batman fell upon them like a dark avenging angel. He dispatched Martin and Denman with ease, their broken, unconscious bodies flopping to the pavement. Sanchez screamed when the Bat broke his arm. The Dark Knight shoved him against the unyielding brick wall. "I don't want Mr. Roberts to sully himself with you, Sanchez," said Batman as he applied a slow chokehold to the criminal. "But I have no problem in dealing with you myself. You're a pathetic excuse for a human being, and I will see you locked up for a very long time. One way or another." He dropped Sanchez and crushed his face into a rising knee. The crunch of breaking cartilage was loud in the sudden silence, and Sanchez slid down into the gutter where he belonged.
The Bat walked over to where I was standing. "Go home, Mr. Roberts." I placed the gun back into my pocket.
"Does it ever go away?," I asked. "The pain, I mean."
"No," he said. "It never goes away. You just have to learn to live with it as best you can." The events of the last few months rushed through my mind with the force of a black wave.
"I can't," I sobbed. "It's just too much." I fell forward and he caught me. I cried into his cape for a few moments, and then he led me back to my car.
"Be strong, Mr. Roberts," he said. "Your daughter's memory deserves that much." Then he disappeared into the night.
The next day, I visited Amanda's grave. Sitting by her headstone was a dozen roses. I picked them up, and a card fell out. I reached down to retrieve it and saw the bat symbol on the front. I broke down again, fell to my knees and wept my eyes out.
DA END
She was my daughter.
Her name was Amanda Roberts. An honor student, a champion debater, and a passable soccer player. More than that, she was the light of my life, and I loved her more than anything on this earth. My wife, Kim, and I were worried when Amanda did not come home that last night. When the police knocked on our door, I steeled myself for bad news, but nothing can prepare you for the news that your child is dead. The messenger, a Sergeant Myers, had the look of someone who had done this far too often. He stood there, uncomfortable with his hat in his hands, and tried to answer our stunned questions. Able to escape after an eternity, he left us shattered in a colorless world of grief.
Kim was a mess in the following days, and I was barely functional. It rained the day of the funeral, which felt appropriate somehow. I buried my girl in the mud, and then I wept.
I was left in a gray haze until Mark Lewis, the youth pastor of our church filed by at the end of the service. He took my hand and told me to pray to God for comfort. As he finished, I felt something for the first time in days. White anger surged through my body, and I crushed Mark's hand in my grip.
"I'm not talking to that sonofabitch," I said. "I've got no use for Him after what He allowed to happen to Amanda." Mark looked like I had punched him in the stomach with a sledgehammer. I felt sorry later, after everything was over. Mark was a good kid, and did not deserve the venom I spewed at him.
The Gotham police, overworked and underpaid, were finally able to break the case using the latest in forensic science. They arrested three men after a lengthy investigation. The district attorney's office was confident of getting a conviction, but warned us that the wheels of justice grind slowly. It was months before the actual trial began. During the wait, Kim suffered a nervous breakdown. The doctor placed her on medications and suggested she see a psychiatrist. She did, but nothing seemed to help much.
Before the trial started, the fresh-faced assistant D.A. in charge of the case told me that a favorite tactic of the defense in cases like this was to try and smear the victim in the eyes of the jury, and that I should prepare myself for that. I did not worry about it, Amanda was a good kid, and I told him so. He just gave me a strange look and walked away.
The three men accused of brutalizing and killing Amanda were not ordinary street thugs. Two of them, Brian Martin and Eddie Denman, were flunkies of the third, Manny Sanchez. He was a mid-level operative in one of Gotham's many gangs, Los Latinos. His connections were able to secure the services of a high-priced defense lawyer. From the outset of the proceedings, it was clear the state was outclassed. The defense ran rings around the D.A. They produced alibis, cast doubt on the evidence and had the defendants testify under oath proclaiming their innocence. All of that I could bear, with difficulty. But when they began to dismantle Amanda's character, it was too much. The terrible things they said about her, the lies and insinuations. I felt a white-hot poker of rage slowly push itself through my skull. Amanda's memory was all I had left, and this scum were trying to tear that last bit of her to shreds as a matter of public record. I was shaking by the end of the testimony. The punks gave me a hard stare when they were escorted out of the court. I glared back at them with the same intensity with an extra dollop of hatred thrown in for free.
The days groaned by, one after another, and I could see the case slipping away, but I never thought the jury would return a not guilty verdict. When those two words fell from the foreman's lips, my heart sank and despair lapped at he edges of my mind. There was a stark contrast between my reaction and the defendants. They smiled and slapped hands, relief pouring off of them in waves as they prepared to walk out of the courtroom as free men. I watched them, and something new was born inside of me. A dark and twisted thing took root. It began to whisper of blood and vengeance. And I listened.
A couple of sleepless days later, I took down an old dusty box from the top shelf of my closet. Inside was a .45 caliber semi-automatic, a relic of my days in the service. I had not seen it for fifteen years, but I welcomed it like an old friend.
Day slowly bled into night, and I found myself driving toward The Wolf Den, a nightclub in which Sanchez owned a partial interest. You'd be surprised what you could learn at a criminal trial. I cruised around until I found a parking space facing the front of the place. I sat and waited, my fingers playing over the gun while my eyes kept glancing over at a picture of Amanda I had taped to the dash of the car.
I was nervous, but committed to a course of action I would normally never consider. Time ticked over, dragging a new day screaming after the old, complete with shouts, shots and sirens. In the early hours, my patience was rewarded. Denman, Martin and Sanchez all exited the club, laughing and carousing with a group of like-minded revelers. Ice gripped my guts, and I slipped the gun into my jacket pocket. My hand caressed the warm metal of the gun as I got out of the car and walked toward the small crowd. I wore a hat pulled low over my brow, and no one took any notice of me until I was close enough to see the eyes of the three men I was going to kill.
I slid the gun out of my pocket and held it up, the muzzle pointing at the gaggle of befuddled people before me. A firearm commands instant attention. Once it's presence registered, eyes went wide and several gasps could be heard as the forward momentum of ten people stopped dead in its tracks.
"Everyone can leave, except for the three bastards who killed my daughter," I said. My voice didn't crack, but a small tremor ran down through the arm holding the gun. The others scattered, leaving me face to face with the killers who had torn apart my world with callous evil and mean intentions.
"Hey, man," said Sanchez. "You can't do this. We're innocent." If he thought that argument was going to sway me, he was sadly mistaken, although in a few moments it wouldn't matter. Martin began to sidle off to the side, trying to get around my aim.
"Don't you fucking move," I snarled. "I know what you three worthless bags of shit did, and now you're going to pay." Martin turned pale as a ghost. My finger tightened on the trigger.
Suddenly, a shadowy figure dropped down in front of me. I had been so focused on my prey that I had no idea where he had come from. The pool of darkness rose, and I found myself staring at the near mythical symbol of The Bat. He stood squarely between my intended victims and me.
"Mr. Roberts," he said. "Put down that gun. Don't do this."
"No," I said, not meeting his gaze. "You don't know what they've done. What they took from me."
"I do know," he replied. "And I'm sorry." I looked up at him then. I don't know what I expected to see, but it wasn't the bone deep sadness that emanated from his eyes. At some point, I knew he had suffered a tragedy similar to the one I was living. "You're a good man," he said to me. "Don't lower yourself to the level of these animals. Amanda would not want you to end up like this." The gun sagged toward the ground, and my shoulders slumped in hopelessness.
The three men behind him turned to run. I never saw anyone move the way he did. Sanchez and his accomplices didn't have a chance. Batman fell upon them like a dark avenging angel. He dispatched Martin and Denman with ease, their broken, unconscious bodies flopping to the pavement. Sanchez screamed when the Bat broke his arm. The Dark Knight shoved him against the unyielding brick wall. "I don't want Mr. Roberts to sully himself with you, Sanchez," said Batman as he applied a slow chokehold to the criminal. "But I have no problem in dealing with you myself. You're a pathetic excuse for a human being, and I will see you locked up for a very long time. One way or another." He dropped Sanchez and crushed his face into a rising knee. The crunch of breaking cartilage was loud in the sudden silence, and Sanchez slid down into the gutter where he belonged.
The Bat walked over to where I was standing. "Go home, Mr. Roberts." I placed the gun back into my pocket.
"Does it ever go away?," I asked. "The pain, I mean."
"No," he said. "It never goes away. You just have to learn to live with it as best you can." The events of the last few months rushed through my mind with the force of a black wave.
"I can't," I sobbed. "It's just too much." I fell forward and he caught me. I cried into his cape for a few moments, and then he led me back to my car.
"Be strong, Mr. Roberts," he said. "Your daughter's memory deserves that much." Then he disappeared into the night.
The next day, I visited Amanda's grave. Sitting by her headstone was a dozen roses. I picked them up, and a card fell out. I reached down to retrieve it and saw the bat symbol on the front. I broke down again, fell to my knees and wept my eyes out.
DA END