Chapter 3

William sat in the passenger seat of his patrol vehicle. His supervising partner was Aaron Cash, an old time Veteran whose chest vibrated as he spoke. He was a dark man, with an attitude blacker and stronger than coffee, as he liked to say. They were driving around New Gotham today, and Cash had a lax quality to him, as if nothing provoked him or made him feel uneasy. Jazz music played from their radio, and Cash nodded to the beat as he gently pulled the steering wheel around the streets of New Gotham.

"Ain't much going on in New Gotham," said Cash in his baritone voice. "I mean, not the kind of crime we can do much about. Most of the shit that goes on here goes on up there."

Cash pointed with his finger up to the skyscrapers bordering the streets. From here, they sprouted out of the ground and soared up to infinity.

"White collar crime, white collar drugs, it's all out here. But that's not what you'll be doing as Gotham City Police. Mainly its—"

"Domestics and burglaries," said William. "I know."

"So, you have been listening this whole time. God, I thought you were just gonna sit there and be quiet the whole time."

"I don't want to make mistakes, sir."

Cash laughed. "If you want to be good police, you're going to have be a good partner, Trevor. It's like being on a ship. Makes the time past faster if you get along with the men."

I didn't become police to make friends, thought William. But he knew better than to say that.

"This is a good spot for the new kids," continued Cash. "But back in my day? Hell no. New Gotham was one helluva a hot hospot. What with the Penguin and his goons running around, carrying military-grade weapons; or the Joker blowing up hospital to pass the time? I mean what the hell is a policeman supposed to do against that?"

They drove onto the longest street in the city, Main Avenue. It bisected New Gotham laterally and fed into the Main Bridge that separated New and Old Gotham. There were many pockets of homeless tents straddling the Avenue. The faces of the homeless were defeated and empty, and whenever they did get up from their shabby tents, they wandered aimlessly.

"They call this the wealthy side of Gotham City," muttered Cash. He was watching the streets. "Shit, sometimes, you wouldn't know it."

"When do we start kicking everyone out?" said William. He tried to sound nonchalant about it, as if this was a topic he read about briefly in a headline. "I mean, if we do, that is. I heard that the new Commissioner is promising to use cops to enforce the referendum."

"Yeah I heard about that, too," said Cash in a low tone. He looked displeased and irritated. "It's a shameful way to use police: we're here to protect the people, not kick them when they're down. And most of the homeless here, they're not really doing anything except dirtying the city. Name me one thing they're doing that's truly illegal."

"Loitering?"

"A victimless crime, if there was ever such a 's these white-collar pricks – they don't like having them around. It's like a dark spot on a x-ray that you don't want to think about it. So they're pushing everyone who doesn't make six-figures over that side of the bridge – and it's only going to make Old Gotham worse. We're already stretched pretty thin over there."

They turned onto the financial district of New Gotham. The busiest and most wealthy part of Gotham. There were endless banks and brokerage firms running down the main avenue. They all looked the same: marble white and supported by Greek columns. The money was obscene. It spilled out in the faces of the brokers and bankers who walked Main Avenue. They wore their money on their body and didn't care who noticed.

"There used to be all the best coffee shops in this area," said Cash. "Right here on your left, there was a nice spot owned by a man named Mr. Kim. Good man, but the rent got him. Now look, the new place has all those 'hipster' kids in it. They don't even serve coffee."

Cash slowed the vehicle so he could squint out the side of William's window. He read aloud: "'Dark Horse Coffee Bootyki.' Jesus, what the hell kind of name is that?"

"It's called 'boutique' not booties."

Cash laughed. "You look like you belong in there, Trevor. Maybe you're regretting your choice of profession?"

"I don't drink artisanal coffee."

"'Artisanal coffee,'" repeated Cash in a lofty voice. "My, my, Trevor."

They were coming upon the tallest building of the avenue—Wayne Enterprises. It lay at the center of Main Avenue, giving it an air of discernible importance over the other firms of the avenue. The exterior was painted an obsidian black, making it the black sheep that reigned over the others.

William fought the urge to squirm in his seat. He never told anyone who he was, who his family was. He had managed to stay relatively invisible at the academy as a recruit. Nobody knew that he, technically, was the heir to Wayne Enterprises.

Cash drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Here's what I call the watering hole for a police officer. If you run behind on your quotas, come here. I once cleared 10 tickets in two hours."

Cash's eyes suddenly went keen. Up ahead, and true to his word, was a shiny luxury BMW parked in a redzone outside a café. Cash pulled up behind and set the car into park.

"Follow me. I'll show you what I mean."

Cash got out of his car, William followed silently. They circled the BMW. The engine was still on, sending up hot air from the exhaust. Cash pulled out his ticket book and started taking down the license plate.

"Hey! What the hell is going on!?"

There was a furious man in a business suit coming out of the café. He had a coffee in his hand, and in the other, a ring of keys. He was surprisingly fit, and wore a lean designer suit that struggled to contain the man's impressive biceps.

"Is this your car, sir?" said Cash in a bored tone. He didn't look up from writing the ticket.

"You're damn right this is my car. What the hell are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm writing you a ticket."

"Why the hell are you giving me a ticket?"

William couldn't help but laugh at that comment: How could the man be so dense?

"Oh is that funny to you?" The man was looking between Cash and William with a sneer. "What are you, his little helper?"

William could understand the man's point: William possessed a youthful face and a thin, wiry, body. Cash, however, had graying hair and protruding beer belly, which only emphasized the age disparity between the of them. And of the three men surrounding the BMW, it was the man in the suit who was the most physically fit. He was the one who looked like a 'man' according to modern beauty standards.

"You're parked in a redzone," said William. He pointed to the fire hydrant. "We could have your car towed. Technically."

"Is that a threat? Do you know who I am? I'm on the board of Wayne Enterprises. I could buy fifteen more cars with what I make in a week. And you'd have to go back to your miserable job that ruins people's days."

William suddenly found himself annoyed. Up to this point, he had actually felt some sympathy for the man. But now his sympathy was rapidly evaporating. William hated people like this— people who thought that the world was their plaything. He had seen enough of it whenever his mother had taken him to the Wayne Enterprises boardmeetings – those swarthy sneers, the austere arrogance, the regal superiority. And this man was dripping in it.

"Just let us do our job, sir," said William in a slightly hardened tone. "There's no need to get angry."

The man noticed William's change in tone; it fueled him. He puffed his chest out like a gorilla. "Oh yeah?! How about this: you are going to get a call from my lawyer, and I'm going to have both of you riding a court bench. You hear me, you poor, miserable fucks? I'm going to be buying another Beamer while you two clean out your desks!"

And in a final display of his anger, the man threw his coffee onto the ground. Hot brown droplets splattered everywhere: onto the pavement, onto the BMW, and onto William's trousers.

Cash slowly lowered his parking ticket. He looked at William. Everyone looked at William – the bystanders, the homeless, the people in the café. Everyone knew what the demonstration with the coffee was—a challenge to William's authority. And now it was William's turn. Would he run or fight?

William knew he couldn't take the man physically. He knew that from watching his sister – people with immense strength handled themselves lazily and comfortably, and this man was ready to throw punches. William saw a different strategy appear in his mind: instead of fists, he saw words. Inky, black, boring words.

William reached for his handcuffs, and began reciting: "Gotham City Penal Code, chapter twenty-two, section zero one: Assault on a public servant. Third-degree felony. The assailant may be charged with up to 10 years in prison, and or a fine of up to 10, 000 dollars."

Cash looked at William with a small, knowing smile. William read on.

"Assault is defined by, but not limited to, intentional or reckless bodily injury to another person. Assault can also be defined by physical contact with a public servant that can be reasonably perceived offensive or provocative."

William pointed at the empty coffee cup on the ground. He pointed at his trousers. Then he looked at Cash.

"I would consider that provocative," said Cash thoughtfully. "Maybe even offensive."

The man in the suit watched silently. The fury was obvious on his face, but there was an undercurrent of doubt, too. It was in his eyes – the way they darted uncertainly.

"Oh please," said the man finally, in a much more subdued tone. "I didn't even touch you."

Cash then very slowly, very deliberately put his hand on his gun. William understood that he should follow suit: so there they were, two police officers with their hands near their guns.

Maybe it was just coincidence, but the man in the suit, seeing two men with guns, took an unconscious step backwards. And he remained like that, silent and distant, while Cash finished writing out the ticket.

"There you are." Cash presented the ticket book like it was a newborn baby. "Sign in the little box. You'll have a ticket sent through the mail, which I'm sure you'll have no problem paying. You have yourself a nice day, sir. And buy a new coffee – tell me it's on us."

They went back into the car. Cash was chuckling lowly.

"Way to take the initiative, Trevor. Where the hell did you get all that rule book nonsense?"

William shrugged. "It's just something I remembered from the penal code. My academy instructor was a real pain in the ass for exams."

The truth was that William had a photographic memory. But he didn't like telling people. They stared at him afterwards and begged him to demonstrate his abilities before them.

"I like how you said, 'public servant.'"

"Yeah," said William. Now that the thrill was over, the doubt was seeping in. "I could have gotten into trouble for that, couldn't I? Making arrests as a trainee?"

"If that idiot had called your bluff, yeah, it could have been bad," conceded Cash. He tapped the badge on William's chest. "But you got this. For now, that's all theyneed to now. And you used it the right way. Take a look at what I mean."

Outside, there were many people casting furtive glances toward their vehicle. There were many cars driving obnoxiously slow as well, as if making sure Cash and William took note of their careful driving.

"Most of the time it's like this," said Cash. "People see the badge and they immediately turn stiff. But every now and then you get guys who thinks the law doesn't apply to them – like our friend the BMW driver."

"Do you think he'll actually sue you?" said William. "Sue me?"

Cash snorted. "He'll be snorting the whole department. It'll get logged up in the county clerk's office, and it'll be years before it goes to a trial. And I'll be long gone by then. And you won't be a trainee anymore. You'll be part of the family. You'll have the union behind you."

The radio on their dashboard suddenly spurted to life. A voice rent the air.

"Cash, we got a call out on Old Gotham. Municipal Waste Building."

Cash grabbed the receiver. "I'm with a trainee in New Gotham. Why the hell are you calling me?"

"It's a Code 39. And the Lieutenant wants you on it. She said it's another 'wolfpack' situation."

Cash's face immediately turned grey. It was a very unnerving sight to see: a man, so full of lax, easy energy, to turn stone sober from one word.

The radio cracked to life. "Shall I tell the LT you're busy?"

Cash took a long look at William. Then he glanced toward the spot on the pavement where the coffee stained. And William felt a sudden rush of adrenaline; it felt like looking over the edge of a tall mountain.

"No, Dispatch, we're on it."

Cash hung the receiver back into its clip. He put the car into gear. "Emergency measures, Trevor. Hate to do this. You're getting two cherries popped today."

Cash flicked on the sirens. Every pedestrian in the street looked their way.

"You're not squeamish are you?"

William shook his head. "I can handle blood."

Cash scowled. "That's not what I asked."

The ride to Old Gotham was a simple ride over the Main Bridge, and it was made much easier by the wail of their sirens. William felt the distinct shift in atmosphere as he crossed the bridge. Gone were the shiny, opulent skyscrapers of New Gotham. This side of the city was riddled with rusted scaffolding and half-finished buildings. He had read in school that Old Gotham was once a great industrial city. A mecca for shipbuilding and ironworks. But now, after so many recessions, the city of iron had rusted away. Now there was not much but abandoned factories and rusty train tracks. It was like the carcass of an animal in the desert.

"Most of the cops live on this side of the city," said Cash quietly. "Me included. What about you?"

"I live in the city," lied William. "But it isn't glamorous, I live with five college buds."

"You got to do what you have to do," said Cash, with just a hint of approval in his tone.

The lies came so easily to William. Technically, he wasn't lying about anything related to work, but it still felt disengenous to lie to his superior officer. Especially one who was as lax and reassuring as Cash. But how could William admit to Cash that he lived in a palace atop the hill in one of Gotham's wealthiest suburbs. How could Cash take him seriously, especially after what just transpired in New Gotham?

Cash kept his eyes carefully on the streets before him in Old Gotham. It looked like he was waiting for something to happen. William didn't blame him. They passed several stretches that didn't seem too friendly. Here, the dusty citizens did not look away from the police gaze. They stared back, unafraid.

William studied the badge on his breast. It was a little dented from its fall. And there were lines of dirt in the insignia that read: to protect and serve. That was his job. To protect and serve others. He kept thinking about his sister. The way she had so easily picked up the kitchen island, which he remembered weighed exactly three-hundred forty-two pounds (because he ordered it for his mother's birthday, three years prior). He remembered everything: dates, mathematical formulas, nutrition facts.

Emma irritated him sometimes. She always did what she wanted and nobody told her otherwise. Dad spoiled her, and Mom tolerated her. William knew it would come back and bite her in the end. That thought cheered him up for a moment, then the shame settled in immediately. Emma was his sister: why the hell did he want something bad to happen to her?

He was snapped out of his thoughts by a sudden smell in the air. They were pulling into a waste management facility. There was only one other car in the lot. Cash killed the engine and stepped out of his car, his nose immediately wrinkling from the smell.

"Officers! Over here!"

A middle-aged man in faded blue jeans and an outdoor jacket was standing at front of the facility. He had very gray hair, and his clothes were washed but stained with the impressions of dust and grime that comes with years of use. He had worked here for some time.

"You take the point on this one," said Cash in a low voice. "Let's see how you do with these people."

There was something about the way Cash said 'these people' that made William a little hesitant. It was if this middle-aged man in jeans and jacket was a bigger threat than the gorilla in the suit from earlier.

"Hello there," called out William. "I'm Officer Trevor—I mean, I'm Cadet Trevor, and this is Officer Cash. I mean Sergeant Cash. You called earlier?"

The middle-aged man eyed William doubtfully for several seconds. Then looked at Cash.

Cash sighed. "He's a trainee for now. But he's police, just like me. You called about an unidentified body?"

"I did. I found her 15 minutes ago. I usually get here before anyone else: open up the shop, do the paperwork, those sorts of things."

"Did you touch the body?"

"No, she's exactly how I found her."

Cash hoisted up his belt. "Can you show us?"

The man continued to eye William doubtfully. Then he pulled out a ring of keys from his backpocket. "Yeah, I'll take you. Just hold on a sec."

He walked into a nearby office and came out with an empty 10-gallon bucket. Then he pointed around the corner of the facility. "This way."

William glanced nervously at the bucket. "Why are you bringing that?"

The man's face turned a shade somber – like he was remembering something particularly painful. Whatever it was that lay beyond the corner of the facility, it was not good.

"Alright, lead the way," said Cash finally. He did not seem too disturbed by the bucket – he looked grave and bracing, like he was preparing himself for a deep dive into a lake.

The man gave them one more glance. "Have you two officers had breakfast yet?"

"Why?" asked William.

Silence. The man kept scrutinizing them – his gaze particularly on William.

"I had coffee and a croissant," said Cash. "Trevor here doesn't eat until noon."

The man gave the faintest nod of approval. "Good."

Then the man started walking down the side of the factory. Cash fell in line, and William, after a second of hesitation, moved forward as well. His legs carried him forward, unconsciously, while his mind was racing with thoughts: what horrors lurked ahead beyond the factory walls? And the remnants of his coffee churned inside his nervous, toiling belly.