Chapter 14: Jeepers Creeper
"Aw, man! Anyone but her!" Arnold Flass cried as he and his partner observed another possible homicide. Summer Gleeson was lying face down near the marble coffee table, one sharp corner coated in dry blood.
"Gentlemen, welcome," the coroner from their last case was squatting nearby to examine the body closely. She didn't meet their eyes when speaking to them, only continued to write down her observation. "Wish we could've met again in better circumstances, huh?"
"Uh, again?" Flass questioned in furrowed brows. "Have we met?"
"Don't waste your brain cells on me, Flass," the coroner retorted. "I doubt you remember Valentine's Day from all that heavy drinking."
"Hey, I don't drink for breakfast," the detective argued as he snapped a bite of his egg sandwich. "Okay? So why don't you-"
"Shove that hole in the middle of your face and hand the body over to someone more qualified," the coroner recited as she mocked his voice. "Yeah, I know."
"You a gypsy or something?" Flass raised his hands in a defensive manner, keeping his distance. "How did you know what I was going to say?" The coroner rolled her eyes.
"Wow, this is worse than I thought - your temporal lobe is permanently damaged by the number of booze you drink an hour."
"Whatcha say?"
Now she was asking for a fight, and the burly detective wasn't too keen on hearing what she had to say. Before he could challenge her again, Gordon stepped in the middle. His flashing badge silently ceased their argument. They're at a crime scene and currently on duty. Now it was not the time to fight; they needed to either wait or take a walk outside of prying eyes - the alleyway was the best place for violence.
"Did the neighbors find her like this?" Gordon asked an officer.
"Actually one of the interns at GCN did," the officer replied, pointing at the girl who was sobbing into the housekeeper's arms. Neighbors tried to comfort her while they attempted to see what was going on in the apartment. Two officers made sure no one entered the premises without authorization.
"When Summer wasn't answering her phone and didn't show up for the morning news, they sent the girl here. The housekeeper skipped some rooms to let her in with the master key, and then... you know."
"Damn," Flass cursed, snapping a bite of his egg sandwich, its crumbs dropped onto the floor. Gordon glared up at his partner, who received the silent message to step away from the body.
"And nobody outside heard anything unusual?" Gordon asked. "A scream or argument?"
"No, according to the property manager, these rooms are designed to be soundproof to prevent noise complaints." That's what Gordon was afraid of. So much for having an ear witness.
"So as you can see," the coroner read off her findings as she pointed at the marble coffee table, "this nice centerpiece here was her cause of death - severe blunt force trauma to the head."
Gordon kneeled by the body, shifting the red curls away to see the girl's lifeless eyes staring back. He was becoming familiar with that look, something that nobody should be fond of. He blinked the images of his last case away as he examined Summer's split lip and French manicure, noting the dirt caked underneath the tips. Just because this woman loved to dig dirt on people didn't mean she was the gardening type. Flipping her hand back over to take a closer look at the front of her nails, he nearly missed the red smear on her ring finger - that's blood - she had scratched someone. The DNA under each finger was far too consistent to be accidental.
Gordon examined Summer's head wound that was resting on her own pool of blood. Then he found another blood trail beneath her legs that stained her skirt. Gordon was confused until the coroner explained further.
"She's on her period."
Gordon didn't want to hear that twice as he quickly deserted the body, allowing the coroner to take over.
"She got fucked?" Flass wondered. He wrinkled his nose at the sticky noises from the kitchen tiled floor. The coroner raised a brow at the detective's guess.
"You can say that..." she refused to praise the man for it. "I did find traces of semen on the victim. Did the stain on the sheets in there give it away, or the wine glasses?"
"Well, yeah, that," Flass gestured the two empty glasses in the sink. It's clear that Summer had a guest here and made a spill when pouring their drinks. The crumbled newspaper in the trash can was the cheap washcloth to clean up the mess. He grabbed the opened bottle of gin-a-tonic and a mug from the cupboard to pour himself a drink. "But I was talking about the sex smell. I'm surprised y'all couldn't smell it on her."
Despite the vulgarity, he wasn't wrong.
"I think the main question is..." Flass wagged his finger at each word, "Was. It. Consensual? Hm?"
"What happened to never drink during breakfast?" the coroner challenged.
Flass snorted, grinning with amusement, "Lady, look at your watch, it's almost brunch. Big difference." The lady's respect for the detective deteriorated once more, especially when the man was planning to drink the same bottle the victim had been drinking before she died.
Gordon turned his attention to the apartment itself, starting with the entrance, specifically eyeing the hinges that's still intact and the clean latch without a single scratch on the frame.
"No sign of forced entry."
"So Sunny D knew her murderer," Flass stated. He had a tug-a-war with a forensic investigator who snatched the gin-a-tonic from his hands to bag it for evidence. "C'mon, man! One sip!"
"No," the male investigator replied, "I think we can all agree that you're a better detective without taking a drink anyway." The coroner snorted at the comeback, receiving a harsh look from the detective.
Gordon analyzed the kitchen, paying no mind to his partner. The countertop was indeed sticky and the floor. The glasses in the sink had been washed and wiped clean of fingerprints and saliva. Prescription bottles of valium had been bagged up for evidence as well. It's possible that the victim had mixed the drugs with alcohol which caused some nasty effects. It's up to the forensics team to make that conclusion when performing an autopsy.
He peeked inside the bedroom to see the scattered sheets and pillows thrown around, just like the apartment in the Narrows. It didn't take a genius to figure out where the intercourse took place. There was nothing abnormal about it until he found the kitchen knife on the floor. Why was it here? Was it Summer's attempt to defend herself? The home phone was also lying nearby the bed. He picked it up to hear nothing on the other line. Did she get a hold of dispatch? If that's the case, this homicide investigation should've taken place earlier.
Flass leaned against the doorway, watching his partner inspect the room.
"The guy out there mentioned dusting for prints. He found nothing on the phone; the killer must've wiped it clean."
"Yeah," Gordon acknowledged before he faced his partner with a question in mind, "but did he remember to wipe the phone record clean?" They required a subpoena and the telephone company's reluctant assistance to obtain Summer's phone records.
"Ha! It takes a real tech genius to pull that off, if not, he better be friends with one... or threaten to permanently stick his head in a toilet," Flass laughed at his high school days - those were good times. He didn't waste a cent on his lunch, all thanks to the geeks.
"But I doubt we'll find anything special on it anyway. Even if Sunny D did call 911, it doesn't change the obvious. This is clearly a one-night-stand-gone-wrong. The guy was too rough. She tried to get away, wave the knife around, screaming, 'Please, don't come near me! I'm a woman!'" His voice pitched briefly to mock the dead reporter's voice. "She tried to call the cops. He knocked the phone out of her hand, and the knife. He chased her outside. They fight and fuck some more. She, once again, threatens to call the police if he doesn't leave and then..." The detective clapped his hands, indicating the cause of death in the living room. "A single blow to the noggin, missing her cue on air." The man sighed sadly, "Damn, I am going to miss watching her."
"You know that ninety percent of what she said on TV isn't true, right?" Gordon noted another spill on the carpet. Fortunately, it wasn't blood but from a drink. His mind recalled the gin-a-tonic in the evidence bag.
Flass snickered, "Who said anything about listening to gossip, Gordon?"
The sergeant detective ended the conversation, immediately, refusing to picture his partner jacking off in front of his television.
"I hate to say this," the coroner entered the room, her expression showed a mixture of disgust and pain as she reluctantly declared her opinion, "but Flass's theory isn't... far-fetched."
"Hey, you shut your mouth, woman, and let the professionals handle this!" Flass snapped at her without thought. Both investigators glared at the detective in disbelief until Gordon spoke up.
"Um, Flass... she's agreeing with you."
Flass blinked, letting out a hearty laugh and rubbing his hands together, "Oh, good! That's the smartest thing I ever heard you say, Lady."
"I'm starting to like you better when you're drunk," The coroner rolled her eyes as Flass motioned her to continue the praise. "Judging from the blood splatter on the table, she only got hit one time. Whether your mystery guy had pushed her too hard or the floor was far too slippery for her own good, her cause of death didn't appear to be intentional."
"Maybe," Gordon put his hands on his hips, "but the guy didn't stick around to call for help. That knife is here for a reason - make sure it gets dusted for prints," he ordered a nearby forensic investigator who murmured a 'yes sir' and obliged to his request. "Either way, we need to find this guy now and question him."
"Detectives," another officer entered the bedroom, sounding out of breath. "The security guy - he got something for you on tape that could help you."
"Did he say anything significant?" Gordon asked.
"He found a person of interest... it's..." the officer paused to take a deep breath.
"What do you have? Asthma? Get your inhaler out and give us a name already!" Flass pressed. For that, the officer handed Gordon a photo from the surveillance footage that revealed one individual.
~000~000~000~
Despite Carmine Falcone's threats, the routine hadn't changed; it was unnecessary. Falcone and Jonathan had a mutual agreement as long as they stick to the plan and don't turn on each other, there would be no bloodshed against one another. Summer's death could've been avoided if she wasn't a reckless, wicked witch. Threatening to expose Falcone and the entire operation was a big no-no. As for Rachel Dawes, they both agree that she must die for sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Jonathan Crane should feel bad for placing a target on her back, but this was Gotham City - an eat and kill world.
'You must do what it is necessary to defeat evil," he could never forget the repeated line from his superior. Jonathan must prepare for all the possible outcomes when the night of terror begins...
"So how do you feel?" Kathryn asked as they walked down the street toward their usual coffee place. Jonathan raised a brow, silently asking her to elaborate. "Your presentation to the board?"
"How am I supposed to feel? If you are asking if have a bad case of the jitters, I can assure you that I don't."
"That's good," she looped her arm around the crook of his elbow. "But it's also okay to admit you're a little nervous. I mean, you've been begging Doctor Arkham for months to approve your program-"
"I wouldn't call it begging."
"What would you call it?"
"A persistent request."
"Aw, okay," Kathryn giggled. "You persistently requested funding and approval for your program, and when you think the window of opportunity isn't gonna open for you-"
"Believe me, Kathryn. I am fine," he promised. "I am prepared. I checked out all the boxes. Nothing will go wrong."
"Well, I do admire your load of confidence," she snuggled against his frame, wrapping her arms around his waist. She tilted her head up to face him, "So I guess you don't need my good luck kiss, after all?"
Crane ceased his pace, staring ahead in consideration before gazing at Kathryn's puckered lips, "Maybe not for I am not a superstitious man..." He squeezed her closer to him, "though I can't say a kiss will ruin my chances."
Her lips stretched as he leaned for that good luck kiss until somebody bumped into Crane's shoulder. Jonathan stepped back and his arms extended at the cold wet sensation leaking through his clothes. He was oblivious to the voices around him. Kathryn asked if he was okay, and another man in a velvet green sweatshirt apologized for the mishap.
"Don't worry, it's just ice!" the man laughed nervously. "We don't need the aloe."
"I'll go get some napkins," Kathryn excused herself inside the shop.
"Sir, I'm really sorry," the man tried to wipe the excess from Crane's jacket.
The doctor shoved his hand away, commanding, "Sir, please, don't touch me."
"Sorry! Sorry," the man raised his hands to show that he meant no harm. "So sorry! I can pay for your coffee. I can take your coat to the cleaners."
"Sir!" Jonathan silenced the man by raising his hand and offering a pressed smile. "It's okay."
The man widened his eyes, "What?"
"It's okay," Jonathan repeated quietly. "You don't have to do anything. This is just..." he tried to find the words to describe this mishap. Incompetence from the incompetent. A lack of cerebellum in the brain. A dense individual who neglects a trip to the ophthalmologist. No, the better term for this was...
"An accident," he forced out in gritted teeth.
"Really? I-I can treat you and your girlfriend with croissants, or maybe-"
"Believe me, sir. You don't have to do anything. I can pay for dry cleaning. I can treat my girlfriend with croissants for it is indeed her favorite carb to eat in the mornings. And I am capable of forgiving someone and not expecting payback. So you can move on with a clean conscience - no strings attached."
"Really? Are you sure, you're okay?"
"Really," Jonathan insisted. "I hope you have a pleasant day, sir." He refused to look back and hear the man anymore as he entered the coffee shop.
Kathryn was standing by the glass entrace with a set of napkins at hand. Jonathan thanked her as he took the napkins to wipe his stained sleeve.
"So much for looking my best for the board," he grumbled, breathing out heavily in dismay. "I don't have time to change. Remind me to never have coffee before work."
"Jonathan, it's okay. You can always wear the white coat in Arkham," Kathryn offered.
"Doesn't make me look very professional."
"Don't worry about that. You of all people should know that it doesn't make a difference!" she cupped his chin, forcing him to look at her. "You're the head psychiatrist and the chief administrator in Arkham Asylum for a reason. The age, and the background, and the outfit have nothing to do with it. Do you understand me?"
For a moment, Jonathan didn't think about the mishap, "You paid attention?"
"Of course, I did. I spilled hot chicken broth on your lap, remember? That night is impossible to forget..." her eyes slanted in deep thought, "and the reaction after."
"Did I apologize for that?"
Kathryn shook her head, "No, nor did I expect you, too."
"Would you like me to say the words?"
"Will you be sincere?" He refused to give away an answer, nor did he apologize to her. It didn't matter now. Kathryn was happy that they were not experiencing deja-vu. His humble attitude toward the man could bring him some good karma.
Jonathan brushed the curls out of her face, pulling her close as he whispered, "If it weren't for that night, my girlfriend wouldn't be here today." He referred to her as his girlfriend out loud and for the first time with a stranger. Her heart couldn't stop racing at that. She interlaced her fingers behind his neck and leaned her head back, exposing her white smile - so smitten and so in love.
As his girlfriend, it's her duty to award him that good luck kiss - briefly sweet and in public. Neither cared, for there were no doctors around. Jonathan tangled his fingers through her tangled hair, gently down to the base of her neck. The thought of someone wrapping his gloved hands around his girlfriend's neck forced Jonathan to gaze through the window to check and see if some shady individual was outside with a camera in hand.
~000~000~000~
Rain was beating the patrol car, nearly overpowering the mixed sound of police and ambulance sirens. Gordon was tiredly waiting in the passenger seat for his partner to come out of the drugstore.
Arnold Flass returned to the car with a half-eaten candy bar and a winning wager that didn't come from a scratch-off lottery ticket.
"Don't suppose you want a taste?" Arnold's mouth was full of chocolate as he spoke. "I just keep offering, thinking maybe someday you'll get wise." He didn't offer candy but to split his payout with Gordon. The sergeant turned his head towards the window, his hands remained still on their resting spots.
"There's nothing wise in what you do, Flass," Gordon grumbled.
"Well, Jimbo, you don't take the taste, makes us guys nervous."
"I'm no rat!" Jim snapped before letting out a hopeless sigh. "In a town this bent, who's there to rat to anyway?"
His partner burst into laughter as he turned the key into the ignition and drove off. Minutes later, a phone rang in the car.
"Is that you?" Flass asked.
"It's you," Gordon dryly answered.
"Ah, shit," Arnold fiddled with the middle console and pockets, briefly turning his eyes from the road to search for his phone.
"Eyes on the road!" Gordon barked. Flass straightened up in time to swerve the car back to the proper lane, nearly colliding with a passing vehicle. Repeated horns blared behind them, which was understandable. The driver had every right to be mad. Whether he was at fault or not, it didn't stop Flass from rolling down his window and sticking his middle finger at the driver.
Gordon shook his head in dismay as he answered his partner's phone for him, "Detective Flass's phone."
"Gordon?" the male speaker on the other line laughed. "You're Flass's secretary now?" Gordon huffed, listening to the man tell his friends about Gordon's so-called demotion.
"Who is that?" his partner demanded, his eyes shifting between Gordon and the traffic.
"What do you want, Marshall?" Gordon asked, putting the man on speaker. The IT's name perked the driver's attention; he was spitting out questions. Once again, Gordon ignored him to hear what Marshall had to say.
"Tell Flass that I got the victim's phone records as he requested."
"You didn't?" Gordon pinched his brows, fighting the upcoming migraine. There were ways to get the evidence - most required patience and a warrant, which they don't have yet. Flass always preferred the unethical shortcut to victory. Gordon doubted Marshall's supervisor was aware of this. Telephone companies weren't usually keen on helping due to protecting their customers' privacy, especially if that customer was dead.
"I did. But before I give it to you, ask Flass how the match went?" Gordon didn't need to ask if Marshall was referring to the illegal fighting ring at East End - the only one Gordon was aware of so far - that Flass didn't mind watching and gambling with his clerk buddy back in the drug store. To think that Gordon should be arresting all three for their involvement. Unfortunately, Gordon remained silent as his ears endured this conversation.
"Okay, around the time of your victim's death, Summer received a call, and they've talked for... seven minutes."
"Before or after the perp's visit?" Flass wondered.
"It was right in between. I mean, the caller should've known that somebody was in the room with Summer, and so far, he's not saying anything."
Flass boastfully laughed, praising Marshall for his fine work. He promised to give Marshall his split of their winning the next time they met. Gordon raised a brow at that statement. Didn't Flass offer his winnings to him earlier? What lie would he say to Marshall if he asked about his cut? Would he throw the clerk under the bus? It didn't surprise Gordon if Flass was petty enough to do that.
"Oh no! No! No, my friend! I want all of it - the whole pot. I didn't have to leak this information for ya, you know. I could lose my job."
"Really?" Flass questioned. "'cause I could've sworn this is payback for bailing you out of County - a favor for a favor. I didn't have to put in a good word for ya to Judge Faden. I should've left you to rot in jail, but I didn't. Now we're squared." Gordon sighed deeply, raking his fingers through his scalp. He wanted to go home, almost ready to return his badge and retire.
"You mind giving us the number?" Flass wondered.
"Better. I can give you his number, his name, his occupation, and his address."
"Then what are we waiting for," Flass turned on the police lights as he ran a red light and swerved to the other lane, nearly crashing another car in his blind spot. The horns resumed as music to their ears.
~000~000~000~
Jonathan was in his office, writing down the observations from his last patient. Whether or not Kathryn's good luck kiss did the trick, the board directors of Arkham, including the owner himself finally approved funding for his Fear Aversion program. Finally, he was able to experiment and take notes without objection.
There will be some whispers - unpleasant remarks and rumors - Jonathan suspected as much. All the doctors and crazies here might brand him insane; that may be true in a clinical sense. He had a voice in his head that couldn't go away permanently. However, a wise man once said that all the best and the brightest required a little madness.
Once Jonathan Crane perfects his concoction with some enforced assistance, he should be able to help Gotham City conquer its greatest fears. The world could never be the same after that. They'll call Jonathan Crane their savior - their king - their god.
Just like everyone else, Kathryn did ask questions about the program, only to be his pretty practice audience for his presentation to the Board. He did spare the woman the technicalities regarding his therapy methods, for he knew how much she hated needles. The woman refused the annual flu shot because of her belief of getting sick after the injection when it should prevent the illness, not to mention the swelling side effect on the arm. She offered dinner to celebrate, but Jonathan declined for he had so much to do after hours that required little sleep.
The only downside to this was that the late-night therapy sessions would take time away from spending time with Kathryn, but that's to be expected. She was indeed the supportive girlfriend to be so understanding about it. He would have to reward her some time, whether it was a romantic dinner on his night off at Pascuale's or a week-long stay in Hawaii while this city gets a taste of his medicine.
Before Jonathan could finish another report, much to his dismay, the intercom on the phone beeped. He expected to hear Emma, but an eerie screech replaced her voice. The surprise noise forced a line to curve across the paper, nearly knocking down his sealed coffee cup.
"Fuck!" The chief administrator pushed the button to speak with his secretary, ignoring the rapid pound in his chest, "Emma, what the hell was that?"
"I'm sorry, Doctor Crane." The doctor couldn't help himself. His face tensed at the sound of a laughing male instead of Emma's stuttering accent. "I hope I didn't scare you."
Crane paused to familiarize the speaker's voice with a possible colleague or patient. So far, nobody had come to mind.
"Sir, could you kindly explain why you're talking to me and not Emma?"
"I'm afraid - heh-heh - Emma can't come to the phone, right now."
"Where is she?"
"Aw, you're worried about sweet little Emma. I bet she would be glad to hear you have a heart, after all. I was expecting the age-old question like 'Who are you' - 'What do you want?'. You know, but I appreciate the sentiment - a fine quality to have."
"You don't work here, sir," the doctor acknowledged.
The speaker scoffed, "I know that. Relax, Doctor Crane. I'm only here to keep Miss Thomas's seat warm until she returns from her break, which won't be very long. I only have about three minutes to talk to you."
Crane had endured pushy reporters, a nosey assistant DA, incompetent interns, dumb doctors, and obnoxious relatives who demanded either the patient's progress report or an early release. This wasn't another monotonous visit. However, this was premeditated if the creep really did track Emma's coffee breaks. Falcone couldn't have sent this guy to scare Crane; that would've risked blowing their entire operation. It was too soon for his sponsor to come. The toxin wasn't ready.
"Sir, if you wish to voluntarily admit yourself and receive treatment here, you must-"
"I'm not crazy!" the speaker insisted before taking a deep breath to regain his composure. "I have a package for you, doctor, which I will leave for you down here. If I were you, I would hurry before your secretary sticks her nose in your dirty laundry." He snorted, which turned into a burst of snickering laughter - not as menacing compared to John Doe's laugh. The master of fear wasn't worried; he came prepared by keeping a sedative in his shirt pocket. He snapped the lid off the syringe, now ready for defense.
"Or you can come up here and deliver the package to me yourself?" Jonathan expected the man to laugh as if he had said the most ridiculous. Both knew coming up here was suicide; not only would it increase the speaker's chances of getting caught by security but also receiving a taste of Crane's medicine.
"Yeah... I would love to, Doctor Crane. I would love to see your face when you open my present, but I can't stay long, not after you pressed the panic button underneath your desk." How did he know about the button? What did that matter?
"What makes you think I pressed it?" That earned a brief moment of silence from the speaker. Finally, Crane said something that submitted the man into a questionable state of confusion.
"You didn't? Why would - No! Ha, you almost got me, doctor. You clever - clever boy," the caller scoffed, trying to shake off the nerves in his voice. "Everybody calls for help when they sense danger - it's an instinct."
"Consider this a lesson to you: I'm not everybody," Jonathan pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned forward. "Soon you and everyone else will learn that the hard way."
The doctor could picture the mystery man now - almost identical to the psychiatrist who lasted two days. Crane remembered the doctor trying to hide his tremble and holding back an early bathroom break in his pants - unsuccessfully.
"You're here to present me a cheap gimmick to rile me up and then leave this building before we could find you."
"I thought you didn't call security."
"Not me, but perhaps another employee you've crept out today. I wouldn't try scaring Dr. Cassidy. She's already had enough of this place; believe me, she won't hesitate to scream." His head throbbed at the memory of reading Cassidy's incident report about her last session with Victor Zsasz. Miss Dawes may have been accurate about Garfield Lynn and Maxie Zeus, but not Zsasz. Definitely not Zsasz.
"I crept you out?"
"You're missing my point!" Crane had enough of this. It was time to nip this in the bud with words before he had to physically end it himself. Two could play this game if this man wanted to be the master of fear. "You're down there, taunting me instead of having the fuckin' balls to come up here and hand me your fucking gift yourself. Whether somebody has put you up to this or yourself-"
"I know where you live."
Of course, he knew.
"Oh, good. You're following the basic rules of stalking to the tee - very good, sir. You're welcome to break in and scare me if you like, but just so you know, I am not in the mood for games. I may not look the part, but I am more powerful than you-"
"Mmm."
The doctor couldn't help but cringe at the noises the stranger was making: a sharp intake of breath and a drag-out moan for an exhale.
"Sir?" Did the man not pay attention to what Jonathan was saying to him? His warning was kindness compared to what he could do to this creep.
"Lavender," the speaker awed. "Her chair smells like lavender. Did you know that Emma's got a diffuser going underneath her desk? Nobody can fault her for bringing some aromatherapy in this creepy place... I wonder, what kind of body wash does Emma use to shower... or maybe soak in her bathtub?"
"Oh my god," Jonathan grumbled, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sir, whoever you are, please, make your point and get the fuck out, right now."
"Come down here and open my present, then everything will become crystal clear," The speaker cleared his throat. "Not a word, Doctor, or our powerful friends will feed you to the dogs, and judging by your size, the feast won't last long."
"Who said I have friends?"Jonathan challenged.
"...Okay, I give you that, maybe our friends are not as friendly as your girlfriend... Kathryn Knightly," he whispered the name that sent chills down the doctor's spine. Jonathan curled his fingers around the arm of his chair in a tight grip, though he said nothing.
"Oop, I gotta go. Mama's coming back. I can't stay long... Wish I did... just to say goodbye. If I did get caught and had a choice for my punishment, I would've let Emma whoop my butt instead of your security team. Between you and me, I've been a bad boy."
Jonathan pressed a fist against his lips as he swallowed the vomit back to the digestion process. He hurried to the main entrance, not surprised to see the creeper nowhere in sight and Emma back behind her desk. The only thing abnormal about this picture was the wrapped, rectangular present on top of the nearest chairs in the waiting area. The paper was green, while the ribbon and bow were red.
"Emma?"
The secretary jumped at his voice, didn't expect to see him in person, "Yes - Yes, Doctor?"
"Have you seen someone enter here recently?" he questioned. She shook her head. A lost expression on her face.
"No, sir. I haven't... Why - Oh, who is that for?" she asked about the gift.
"For me." Of course, Emma didn't see the creeper when she stepped out a few minutes for her coffee break. As angry as Jonathan was at Emma for not being there, he couldn't fault her either.
"Oh, who's it from? A girlfriend?" Jonathan raised a brow in her direction. Emma quickly retracted her question and resumed her work on the computer.
Instead of taking it to the proper authorities for inspection, Jonathan opened the gift himself in his office. He was ninety percent certain that it wasn't a bomb or toxic gas. The first encounter was designed to be a warning. Now unless the creep was working for John Doe; in that case, he's screwed either way. The speaker mentioned 'dirty laundry'. This package must've contained evidence against Crane that could hold up in court. He bet Miss Dawes would love to have it in her possession. Why did the creep give it to him?
His fingers gently held the side lid while his eyes stared straight at his computer screen.
'Are you sure this is a good idea?'
Crane couldn't help but chuckle at the irony behind this situation. To think that he, himself, was the voice of reason.
'Why do you ask? Are you scared?'
His dark half denied it immediately.
Taking a deep breath, Jonathan gently lifted the lid and then slowly slid it off the box. Peeking inside the package, he didn't find any wiring that could set off a bomb before removing the lid completely to see the disturbing content inside.
More photos of him were taken at his place, near the coffee house and the asylum. He stopped at the last masterpiece of himself kissing Kathryn by the terrace. At least Jonathan knew the speaker had taken the incriminating photos for Falcone.
There were some newspaper clippings as well. Most were from his hometown. A story about a man arrested for child abuse. Crane's breath hitched at the image of two policemen escorting the father outside his house, specifically the man's eyes - almost identical to his own. His breathing pattern escalated at the sight of the scowling grandmother holding the malnourished eight-year-old boy in her arms. Most would misinterpret this tale as a happy ending. The abusive father went to prison and died from a heart attack, and the boy could finally have a normal life and be raised by his sweet grandmother, who could spoil him with sweets and love. If only the people in Arlen knew that wasn't the case. The weeping boy's situation worsened after that, and he had the scar to prove it. One girl was aware of his story. She could've helped him as much as he could help her, yet she chose to die with her own abuser.
The speaker wasn't kidding about Crane's dirty laundry. Back to emptying the gift box, his stained suit was in there, which hadn't been washed or touched since he had dropped it off at the cleaners. It reeked of cigarettes and death. He didn't understand how it could smell like that. Crane hadn't smoked since his last job at the university. The suit was folded in a plastic wrap with a note pinned on top.
'Sorry again for the spill.'
He realized that he had met the creeper before. The guy who purposely bumped into him outside the coffee shop and stained his suit jacket. To think, out of all the idiots in Gotham, he chose to be nice to a stalker.
A tall, caucasian male with black bushy hair, wearing black-framed glasses and a velvet green sweatshirt, was born with blue eyes and a huge forehead. That narrowed it down to nearly a hundred men in this city with the same description, including him.
'Is it just your brain, or is the smell getting stronger?'
Crane removed the clothes from the box, only to be greeted by a dead crow buried underneath.
The man gasped and fell back onto his seat, "Fuck!" He clutched a fist against his mouth, concealing the airway through his nostrils. He wasn't afraid. Jonathan Crane, the Master of Fear, wasn't scared. Disgust was the only explanation for his reaction, and he had every right to be. This creeper killed and packed a disease-carry bird in a box for him.
Jonathan turned away from the gift basket: the newspaper articles, the bird, and his suit. The one thing he chose to set his focus on was the photo of them together. Kathryn was his Katrina, who showed nothing but love and devotion to him. The necklace he had given her sealed the deal that they were in it for the long haul. No matter the situation, there was no going back.
Jonathan worked with very bad people, and now they knew about her and what she was to him. Whether or not there's a relationship, they planned to use her to get to Crane. He couldn't forget Kathryn's words, what she said to him about passion.
'A man's passion becomes a weakness...'
"And that weakness becomes the devil's weapon," he added. If they dared lay one finger on her, they would pay for it with their sanity. Whatever it takes. Crane must do what's necessary to keep Kathryn safe.
Why?
Because he...
"Wait..." Blinking back to Kathryn's jawline, something had caught the doctor's eye. Transparent words had been printed on Kathryn's face - a watermark. Photographers use it to brand their work as their own. To think the creeper was supposed to be clever. Rolling his chair back towards his desk, Crane held the photo underneath the lamplight and leaned forward to take a closer look.
"Property of..."
Eventually, the corner of his lips curled for the third time today.
He found the name - the identity of the creeper.
The intercom buzzed again. This time, much to his relief, it was Emma.
"Sir, I don't mean to bother you, but-but there are two-two police detectives who wish to speak with you - they're pretty insistent, actually."
Jonathan huffed. To think, this night couldn't get any worse. No matter. He had no choice but to allow them upstairs, not without hiding the evidence first.
Arnold Flass - one of the officers on Falcone's payroll - barged inside the office without knocking as if he owned the place. His partner, however, was the polar opposite. He apologized for the intrusion and politely introduced himself and Flass, flashing his badge to show that he was legit.
"Gentlemen, I don't mean to be rude, and I am sure you both are here for an important reason, but I am a very busy man with little time to spare."
"We understand, Doctor Crane. This won't take long," Gordon promised.
'Doubt it.' His dark half internally thought the obvious.
"What were you and Summer discussing on the phone last night before the table bashed her skull?" Flass went straight to the point of their business, earning a disapproving look from his partner. Jonathan raised a brow at the bluntness, though he expected it. Of course, the police would go over the phone records and find that Crane was the last one who had spoken with Summer around the time of her death. No doubt, Falcone wished to hear from Flass just what Crane got to say about the phone call.
"Excuse me?" Crane wasn't emphatic though he's a psychiatrist. He had captured the behavior of people who mourned over loved ones, their reaction to the most devasting news. He allowed his emotions from the creeper's gift to overcome him easily.
"I'm sorry," Gordon apologized again for his partner's behavior. "I don't know if you have heard, but Summer Gleeson died in her apartment last night."
Jonathan could see that Gordon had a sense of righteousness about him that was hard to find in this city.
Hard to find with a glimmer of potential...
"No. No, it can't be. She can't be dead. You must've... No. No. There can't be a mistake, but still... I-I don't understand. How could she have died? She was fine. I spoke to her on the phone last night! She was fine!"
"Was she?" Flass questioned in a mocking tone. "Or was she fine in a-
"What were you and Summer discussing last night?" Gordon interrupted, refusing to hear more unprofessionalism from his partner.
Jonathan sighed, interlacing his fingers, "It pains me to say this, especially in these circumstances."
"What?"
"We didn't just talk, Detective, unfortunately."
Flass couldn't help but laugh and point a finger, assuming that he had put the pieces together as to what Crane meant. "Seriously, you and her - you two fucked?!"
"No!" Jonathan expressed disgust in his voice and face. "No, sir, we argued. Words were exchanged in a non-civil matter until she had to excuse herself, saying that someone was knocking at her door..." Jonathan's mouth opened as if he had a revelation as to who could've killed Summer, "You think-"
"What were you two arguing about?"
"I don't think it is irrelevant to your case, detective."
"Or it could if you got something to hide. You breaking any laws, doc?"
The doctor huffed and dropped his hand on the armchair in defeat, "If you must know, detective, Summer Gleeson has been trying to get an exclusive from me for a long while now, only her story isn't about me. It's about Arkham and how this place has been spiraling down the drain since its opening day." Jonathan's tone darkened with every spoken word. Jeremiah Arkham had given Crane a second chance and trusted him out of everyone with his home away from home. Despite the owner's desperation, Jonathan owed him some loyalty and protection against a news reporter.
"Is it?" Flass wouldn't be surprised that this story contained some rare truth out of all the lies Summer had told.
"When I said no," Jonathan continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "she took matters into her own hands."
"Meaning?" Gordon pressed.
"Blackmail," he spat in disgust, shifting his eyes at Flass, who tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. Crane didn't miss the hand hovering his gun holster warningly. Gordon was oblivious to his partner's reaction, too involved with Crane's story to notice.
'Johnny, what are you doing?'
'Trust me,' Jonathan assured his half. 'I know what I'm doing.'
"Doctor, what did she have over you?" Gordon asked once more.
"Summer convinced her cameraman to follow me everywhere I go and snap photos of me having an affair with my colleague."
Jonathan didn't bother to see the detectives' reactions as he opened the drawer to show off the negatives. The police gazed at each photo to see that these were designed for blackmail.
"How much money did ya have to wave around to get a baby doll like her?" Flass asked. If looks could kill, the cop would surely be dead. Once again, Gordon apologized to Crane on behalf of his partner. Crane had a feeling that he'll be hearing more apologies from him.
"I assume Arkham has a no-dating policy in this place," Gordon dropped the photos back on the desk while his partner stared at the up-close photo of Crane and Kathryn kissing.
"Yes," Crane stated, flipping the photo over so Flass could no longer study his girlfriend. "She threatened to report my superior with evidence if I didn't cooperate."
"I guess she pissed you off, didn't she?" Flass challenged.
"She did. I may have wished ill will on the woman, though I didn't expect her to die after hanging up on me... or did she?"
"Take a look at this, Doc," The burly cop unfolded a piece of paper from his coat pocket and showed Crane the security footage photo of the creeper pushing the elevator button. They could only see the top part of his face. There was no mistaking that green sweatshirt.
"You two look quite alike, don't you think?"
"Not really," Crane replied honestly, ignoring the rectangular-framed glasses and lean build. He was holding back the strong urge to smirk. This was getting good. He knew where Flass was going with this. "I mean, look at his hair!" he gestured to the photo before pointing at his own head. "Look at my hair. You're not seriously suggesting-"
"That she pissed you off so much, you broke inside her apartment while keeping her distracted on the phone to spook her and kill her?!"
"That would be a possibility," Jonathan agreed, "if I was talking on my cellphone, which I wasn't." He was satisfied to see the fallen look on the detective's face. "I mean, you can double-check your records if you want. You can scan through my cellphone if you wish - there's no need to bother a judge for a warrant. If you had those records, then you should know that I called Summer from my landline, not my cellphone. And didn't she live in Gotham Heights, detective, distance away from the Narrows where I live, where I made the call?" Only one of them knew the information already just by reading the records.
"So, gentlemen, how could I have killed her? Hm?" Jonathan challenged. "Do you wish to question me as a suspect or a witness? It is rather pointless to be either one, don't you think?" The civil manner detective was embarrassed, not that Crane could blame him for having a dumber-than-pond-scum partner.
"I thought so," Crane gazed down at his desk to finish his notes. "You know where the door is, gentlemen."
"I'm sorry, Doctor Crane," Gordon apologized for the umpteenth time. "We meant no disrespect. We don't wish to offend you any more than we have."
"Mm-hm," the doctor hummed dismissively if only he were in a forgiving mood.
"But we must speak to your girlfriend to confirm this story. Is she still here-"
"No!" Crane jabbed a finger in the sergeant's direction. "Don't say a word to her or anyone else about this. She doesn't know. She doesn't need to know."
"C'mon," Flass snorted, "it's not like anyone is threatening her life or anything."
'Ha. Ha. How hilarious.'
"Oh really?" Jonathan cocked a brow that earned questionable glares from the detectives. Before they knew it, Crane opened his gift for the detectives to see, starting with the smelly dead crow. They reacted the same as him, just as Crane expected.
"Damn!" Flass covered his scrunched nose, "I thought I smelt something funky in here!"
"You have my permission," Jonathan continued to address the detectives professionally, averting his eyes from the gift, "to check the security footage near the front entrance and lobby. Officer Cash would be much obliged to help you catch Summer's photographer. He showed up here today under my secretary's nose and threatened me. I'll help you any way I can, just as long as you keep quiet about Kathryn Knightly."
"What about you?" Flass challenged. "You got some balls telling us this shit when you got so much to lose. You do realize that we have to take that box with us for evidence, right? This can go public if this creeper turns out to be Sunny D's killer. You could lose your job."
"Yes, I am well aware, but this doesn't have to go public immediately, not while your suspect is on the loose. In the meantime, I expect police protection and confidentiality in exchange for my testimony?"
"How can we be sure it's the same guy?" Fortunately, Gordon saved Crane from answering another one of Flass's intrusive questions. "Do you know the photographer's name?"
Jonathan refrained the victorious smirk from crossing his features as he had given them a name. The creeper may believe himself to be the predator, but in Crane's eyes, he was the bait, while the detectives were the fish. Hook, line, and sinker.
~000~000~000~
GCN broadcasted breaking news presented by Mike Engel and Lydia Filangeri. Both greeted the people before reporting the information with straight faces but a heavy heart.
"As we all know, this is a difficult time here at GCN. Even I can't seem to wrap my head around it. It has been one week since Summer Gleeson..." the picture of the redhead appeared on screen while Mike was speaking, "One of our beloved reporters in our GCN family - my friend and colleague - Summer Gleeson was found dead in her apartment complex."
"After a week of investigating this tragedy," Lydia continued, "the police are looking for a possible witness to this case."
An unflattering mugshot photo of the man flashed beside Summer's smiling image.
"Jack Ryder, the last person to have seen Summer alive, is now wanted by the Gotham Police."
Camera footage from the apartment building revealed Jack about to enter the elevator only to walk back to Summer's place. Minutes later, he rushed back into the camera's view with a green jacket on, frantically pushing the button while keeping his back turned from the camera.
"While the police can't determine whether or not the man is guilty of a crime. They simply request an interview with Mr. Ryder to hear his side of what happened that night."
"The fact that he hadn't come forward with answers is not a good look, Lydia. According to one of the detectives, Jack Ryder has allegedly been stalking Miss Gleeson for quite some time," Lydia was fighting the urge to cringe while Mike was listing the allegations. GCN presented a tour around Summer's apartment building and previous footage of eyewitnesses mouthing their testimony against Jack."Neighbors spotted Mr. Ryder on the premises taking photos of Miss Gleeson without her knowledge. Detectives found a few 'souvenirs' at his residence such as a wineglass with a lip stain, a used hairbrush, etcetera..." Some snapshots of the items appeared on the screen, along with some explicit photos of Summer, which had been blurred to spare the woman some modesty.
Lydia shook her head, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
"And one eyewitness saw him do what is indeed violating and disturbing. Lydia interviewed this witness days ago, and we will share her story with you. Please be advised that what you are about to hear is indeed disturbing..."
...
After a momentary pause for the viewer to decide whether to continue watching or click another channel, GCN rolled the footage of Lydia back at the cursed apartment complex, introducing one of Summer's neighbors on camera - a mother holding a sleeping newborn in her arms. Their faces had been blurred to protect their privacy.
"Ma'am, could you please tell us in detail exactly what you saw?" Lydia asked, tilting the microphone in the woman's direction.
"Well, my family and I were chilling by the pool and-"
"Was it indoor pool or out?"
"Oh, most definitely indoor. It is too cold to get a tan anyway."
"Right."
"So anyway, we were swimming and chilling - my daughter needed to use the restroom, and she is too young to go by herself, so I had to go with her. And-"
"And what did you and your daughter see when you both entered the restroom?"
The mother continued her tale, though her muscles tensed in annoyance by the reporter's repeated offense, "Well, we saw Summer in a tight - BLEEP - bikini, rubbing self-tanner on herself and putting on some bronzer and lipstick... Take a moment to let that sink in. She is at the pool - a place to swim, again an indoor swimming pool, where there's no sun, and she is putting on makeup. Whether she was prepping for a photo shoot or meeting some guy, I don't know. I don't judge. She's here to get wet anyway; that stuff better be waterproof, that's all I'm saying."
"Have you spoken to her?"
"About what? It's not like we're friends or anything. My daughter needed to use the restroom, and the summer chick was going about her business. Although, she did ask me if I saw any tan lines on her - BLEEP!"
"Okay..." Lydia trailed off, returning to the subject, "so what did you see?"
"Other than that white girl's tan line?" The mother huffed. "I saw another lady in the bathroom, not doing anything, which was kinda weird. She was just standing there, with her back against the wall. Some of the stalls were open. Then again, you know how public toilets are. I thought she was waiting and was nice enough to let my daughter go first."
"You haven't seen her before?"
"No, thought she is another tenant or some friend. Just because we live here doesn't mean we know everybody. People come and go in a short time because of the rent."
"I notice this apartment has pretty good security here. You have a gate with a keypad to get in and a security guard out front to greet you."
"Right."
"Is there any way an outsider can come in undetected?"
"Well, sure, my son can climb and crawl - no problem. He forgets the code more times than I can count. Frank lets him in all the time without needing a code. Hell, we even hand out our codes to our friends all the time to come in."
"Isn't that a little risky, though?"
"Yeah, but this ain't no prison, lady. We have a guard for a reason in case - BLEEP - hits the fan... Then again, that poor girl-"
"So this woman you mentioned? She wasn't doing anything when you were in there with your daughter? She was just standing around?"
The mother shrugged, "Well, not just standing around. She was holding her cell phone. I didn't think much about it at first. I assumed she was texting somebody. I saw her eyes, the glasses she wore ain't opaque."
"What was she wearing?"
"A pink sweatshirt and booty shorts. She got that long wavy hair flowing and rocking the sunglasses - they were a cute pair. I love the oversize ones with color."
"And then what happened?"
"Well, nothing strange at first. Summer departed first, and then not too long after, so did the sweater chick. My daughter came out later, finished her business, and then we were ready to head back to the pool."
"And that was the end of it?"
"No! We saw the sweater chick outside. Her bag was on the floor. I guess she was picking up some stuff that fell." Lydia opened her mouth to ask another obvious question; the mother beat her to it. "And she was in a hurry too, so my daughter went over to her and offered to help her pick up. I always taught my child to be helpful and kind to others, even if they don't act the same towards you."
"What kind of stuff did this woman have?"
"Girl stuff mostly - makeup, hairbrush, magazines, a camcorder. Again, nothing hit my radar until my daughter started laughing and pointing and screaming out, 'Hey, you ain't a girl, man! You're a boy!'"
Lydia gasped and uttered, "Oh-no."
"Yeah! Lady, my heart stopped when I saw that girl's wig tilt. Our weave don't do that. It stays; his tipped. You know what I'm saying? He may have shaved his face and legs, but he forgot to stick some pins on that bushy head of his and take out the trunk he got between his legs!"
The reporter widened her eyes at the vulgarity, cautiously continuing the interview, "What did you do?"
"Oh, I ripped that wig off his Brady Bunch afro and confronted that mother..." the mother trailed off, realizing who she was talking to, "creeper. I asked, 'What the hell were you doing in the girls' bathroom?' and he told me, right away, that he ain't no pervert. And I said, 'Sir, I never said you were. All I know is that you're wearing booty shorts, and your - BLEEP - is still intact. Now I'm not gonna ask ya again!'"
"And what did he say?"
"He was on his knees, begging me not to call the police. Don't tell Summer. He told me he's a private investigator working for some guy suspecting her of cheating."
"And you believed him?"
"Hell no! I know cops are slow, but not stupid! There is something not right about a white man going into a public restroom that's not for his - BLEEP - and wearing women's clothes with his - BLEEEEEEP! His phone was out, too. He was probably taking pictures of women peeing or changing clothes while - BLEEP! Who knows! If I was born stupid and let my daughter go in there alone..." the mother slapped her hands against her side, refusing to finish that statement.
"My god. I can't imagine what was going through your mind at that moment - with your daughter there! You must've been horrified!"
"Pissed off is the word for it! As you said, I gotta daughter! So then I said, 'Okay, then, show me! Give me your license. Give me proof if you are what you say you are'."
"Did he?"
"Oh no, that idiot took off running! He ran and ran - far, far away, and we went back to the pool and told my husband everything! It's sad that he got away. My husband is good at whooping - BLEEP!"
"And did you at any point recognize the man as Jack Ryder?"
"No, not until later when I saw his pic on TV. I learned from others here that they spotted him creeping around this joint-"
"He's a creeper, lady!" a man in the background, supposedly the woman's son or husband, pulled the reporter's arm to point the microphone in his direction; his face also blurred out. "No doubt about it! He's a Peeping Tom! He dresses up like a chick and snaps pics of you peeing! He's a - BLEEP - creeper who is now a reaper! Use your star-rang to trim at that bush, man! Your hair is giving everyone the hibbie-jibbies!"
"Sir, I don't think Summer was killed by a... star-rang, did you say?" Lydia furrowed her brows at the mentioned weapon she had never heard of.
"Have you seen the movie, Lady? He hunts people with it and then eats them to the bone!"
Lydia snatched her arm back, resuming her line of questioning with the mother, "Did you notify Summer or the police about this incident?"
"Lady, that man was stalking women in the bathroom with his - BLEEP - intact. Hell yeah, I reported him! I went by that Summer chick's place and told her everything, and she assured me that she'd take care of it... Yeah... " she shook her head, "that didn't happen."
"Why not?"
"Well," the guy, once again, was expressing his thoughts to the public, "think about it. The woman is dead, and the police didn't cuff his - BLEEP. They are so dumb! If they did their job right and arrested him, right there and then, that girl would be standing pretty on TV today." The mother didn't disagree with that prideful statement.
The baby in the mother's arms opened his eyes and began to cry, a sign to end this interview.
Lydia thanked the woman for her time, oblivious to the man's blurred birdie in the background.
...
Both Mike and Lydia took a moment to agree that something must be done with the home security, despite the guard's testimony that Summer had willingly and knowingly allowed Ryder through the gate many times previously.
"If you must use a public bathroom, make sure you have somebody with you," Lydia advised. "The buddy system always works."
"Yes," Mike agreed. "Parents, stay with your child at all times. But if you are alone, just be cautious. And again, if you have seen Mr. Ryder here in Gotham, do not approach. Call the authorities. Again, Jack Ryder is not necessarily a suspect. The police just want to hear his side of what happened that night."
"Coming up, we have Mr. Elpis joining us to discuss the dangers of fame and the mind of a stalker and how you should be prepared if you happen to become its prey."
"And don't forget, we'll air Summer Gleeson's wake on Sunday morning at ten. You don't want to miss it."
~000~000~000~
Elise turned away from the TV to pour herself a cup of coffee. If only she were allowed to drink something stronger for this special occasion. Summer may not have been a nice person who probably didn't deserve to die from a single head bump on her countertop.
Regardless, at least Elise didn't have to hear Summer anymore - one reason to celebrate.
"Hey, lady!"
Before she could sip her drink, one of her grouchy regulars barked orders.
"Bring in the mug," he demanded across the counter, waving his empty cup. "I'm not getting any younger by the second."
She suppressed a groan, putting on the fake, heartwarming smile for the officer. "Coming right up, Stephans."
The officer snarled, popping his neck side-to-side. Elise winced at the disgusting noise. Sometimes, she dreamt of a higher pay job that didn't involve serving non-tippers like Grouchy Gerald Stephans. Although, every job has its perks. With her back turned to him, Elise quickly sipped the coffee and spat it back into the mug. She served and watched Detective Stephans drink her spit in pleasure.
~000~000~000~
Gordon entered his office, took off his coat, and hung it on the coat rack. He picked up the phone to dial Doctor Crane's number. It didn't hurt to check on the man to see how he was holding up, ensuring Ryder didn't make any more threats. If worse comes to worst, he could place Crane and his girlfriend in a witness protection program, despite the doctor's request. His intention to keep his girlfriend in the dark may appear noble, but if she was in danger, she must learn the truth. Fortunately, nobody in this city knew Crane's role in the investigation and his secret. As far as Gordon knew, Flass was nice enough to keep his mouth shut.
After a week of searching, there's still no sign of Ryder. They have to assume that he had left the city thanks to his family connections. Of course, Alexander Richards denied involvement with his nephew's disappearance, despite the rumors and his association with Falcone. Of course. It all comes back to Falcone. He was untouchable, which made GCN's CEO and his nephew untouchable. If only Gordon dared to stand up and take the man down.
If only...
Before he could finish, the power went out. Gordon widened his eyes in alarm but wasn't afraid.
Until he heard a click and what felt like a gun firmly pressed against the back of his head.
"Don't turn around," the male intruder warned him in a hushed tone. Gordon obeyed, ignoring the increase of his pounding chest. Was it Ryder behind him? One of Falcone's thugs? "You're a good cop - one of the few."
"What do you want?" Gordon demanded.
"Carmine Falcone brings in shipments of drugs every week. Nobody takes him down. Why?"
Gordon furrowed his brows in confusion. This was new. He should be thrilled that his wish was coming true, but he wasn't. He lived in this city long enough that there was no hope of saving this fallen city. Was this a sick test Falcone had conjured up to see if Gordon would turn on him? Was this stranger a friend or a foe? It was difficult to make the conclusion, considering he couldn't see the stranger's face, who was still pointing a gun at his head. This was risky. Nonetheless, he answered honestly with caution. Everybody in Gotham knew the answer to this warm-up question.
"He's paid up with the right people."
"What will it take to bring him down?"
Now, this was getting dangerous. He wouldn't have hesitated to spill the beans if he didn't have a family at home. A lot was at stake. Then again, Gordon knew what he was up against the second he made the solemn oath to protect and serve. His wife - Barbara - might not like his job, though she knew the risks, too. She might also not appreciate a story of how a stranger broke inside her husband's office and shot him in the head for not giving away simple answers. With that in mind, he made his decision.
"Leverage on Judge Faden... and a DA brave enough to prosecute."
"Rachel Dawes," the stranger spoke the name of someone in the same boat as them - someone who desired justice and hope for this fallen underworld.
"Who are you?" Gordon demanded. He knew the man wouldn't expose his face and name. Why else would he ask Gordon not to turn around?
"Watch for my sign."
"You're just one man," the detective breathed in relief, no longer feeling the pressure against his head.
"Now we're two," the mysterious man declared in a whisper - a silent seal of agreement between them that could never be broken.
"We?" Gordon asked with a mixture of confusion and fear. He didn't remember signing up for an anti-Falcone club. His words may have been his signature, but it didn't mean he was a willing participant. He had a gun to his head, which turned out to be a deception when he risked turning around. The stranger was no longer behind him, leaving a stapler on the floor. Gordon acted quickly by checking outside the opened window, spotting the intruder dressed like a ninja jumping up the stairs and climbing the ladder to the roof.
Gordon pulled his gun from his holster and ran out of his office, up the stairs to catch up, along with two random cops behind him. Once Gordon made it to the rooftop, he kicked the door open to chase and aim his gun at the mysterious figure.
"Freeze!"
The command reached deaf ears as the intruder leaped off the building and smashed into a fire escape of the next building. From Gordon's point of view, it looked painful. The next thing he knew, the intruder's fingers slipped from the rail and fell a few stories until he managed to grab a handrail to climb back up while holding onto his injured ribs.
"What the hell was that?" one of two cops asked as they watched the mysterious figure disappear. The sergeant couldn't tell them - the truth was a death wish. Until Gordon finds this so-called sign of hope the stranger was talking about, he may no longer refer to his secret ally as...
"Just some nut."
