Chapter 22
They entered the city. A strange shift had taken over Gotham; as if an airtight cloth had been stretched over it: suffocating the air, masking the familiar contours of the streets. Familiar businesses and street signs whisked by—but no people. No pedestrians, no customers, nobody about. The tension had swallowed them all. A city abandoned of hope. Now tanks and footsoldiers dominated the traffic. Military checkpoints at every intersection, designed to sniff out any non-desirables. And the few cars and cabs that did dare to try their luck moved like nervous beetles. Quickly scurrying from place to place, hoping to avoid the hungry eye of the predators lurking ahead.
In the backseat of the cruiser, William felt like he was sitting on one cheek the entire time. He assured himself silently: you're police, you're in a police cruiser, you're part of the protectors, not the protected. But he couldn't shake the nervousness clung to his ribs, the irritating fight/flight conflict churning in his abdomen, as the cruiser stopped at a checkpoint—a military officer coming around the driver side door, search dogs sniffing the chassis of the cruiser, and a dozen soldiers with weapons slung over their arms. Everyone watching, waiting, for the slightest twitch of guilty movement.
The military officer looked down at the driver. "You two police officers?"
"Yes," answered the burly driver. "I'm Officer Carmichael. Back there is Officer Trevor. We are on our way to City Hall."
"Let me see your credentials."
William handed over his badge and identification card. The driver bundled these into his own and offered the four items to the military officer. The military officer brusquely took them into his possession and stepped away.
William stared at the headrest before him; determined to look neither guilty nor weak. But he also fought to keep arrogance off his face. He didn't want to incense the soldiers, give them a reason to detain him. What a horrible thing, occupation. Either way he cut it, he felt like a criminal, like he had done something wrong. The power these men carried over him was sickening and penetrating—it reached into his very soul, perverted the marrow in his bones. Like a fact of life: William was on one side, and the soldiers on the other.
The military officer came back, shuffling through the badges and ID cards like a bored poker player. "Officer Carmichael, thirty years on the North-east side? Wife works at Olson&Barnes? Two kids at Gotham Elementary?"
The driver stared like he had been gutted by a bayonet; a look of utter annihilation. Was that a threat? The military officer stood there with hips swung, his belly sticking out vulnerably, and waiting for the driver to reply. Nothing had been said, and yet the threat had been laid out perfectly visible as if it had been a polka-dot dress.
For a brief moment, the driver's face cycled through a kaleidoscope of emotions: purple-veined fury, tomato-red outrage, sallow confusion—but finally, inevitably, he settled back onto grey fear: pale, ashen, emasculated fear.
"No need to look worried," assured the military officer. He leaned into the cruiser and placed the ID and badge onto the dashboard. He patted the driver's shoulder. "We just want to make sure you are who you say you are."
The military officer then moved to the backseat window. He rapped the glass with the barrel of his elongated rifle. The driver, still grappling with his new reality, mindlessly pushed a button, and down went the window—it slid down mournfully, perilously. The military officer leaned a gloved hand on the door, with the other hand he flashed William's badge and ID:
"These are your credentials."
Was that a question? William couldn't speak; he offered up a shallow, sweaty nod.
"This ID and badge expire in a week, Trevor."
He said this matter-of-factly, like it was a casual conversation between the two—but underneath this candidness lurked something far sinister. There stirred an earnest, predatorial hunger. The military man had already made his mind up about the scene, he already knew the answers, but he wanted to draw out the pain, he enjoyed watching his prey walk into a trap.
"You're not real police are you?" The military officer lightly tossed the badge and card in his hand, as if weighing them. "Just why are you heading into the City?"
Gulp. The entire situation wreaked of wrongness, of a total upside-down. William was a police officer of Gotham City—he was the one who asked questions. He was the one who stared down suspects and threatened them with implicit, humiliating tactics. Good god, this was unnerving. William tucked his hand into his pocket—it was shaking too much. He was sweating the ugly reek of stress and weakness.
Outside, the search dogs caught the scent: they pranced excitedly on hindlegs, eager to eat. The soldiers shuffled forward. An air of atavism suddenly seizing them all: predator and prey. The entire world closing in on William.
"I'm a trainee—on a probationary period," he finally managed to say—why couldn't he breathe? The anxiety in the backseat was like a blackhole swallowing all of the air. "I need to report to my LT."
"A trainee," repeated the military officer—dregs of amusement swirl in his voice. "You picked a hell of a week to play cop."
Beyond the checkpoint stood a spired church, looming. So many crenellations and filigree cut into the stone and marble. And on the platforms, the gargoyles hung over the air, watching the scene below them with their throaty, delighted scowls. Fear, terror, and evil—it brought joy to these statues. They wanted to see the military officer give the order: let him fling down his hand! Let the soldiers step forward, weapons hugged close to their chest, and open fire on the little tin car! What's one dead body to the revolution? The smell of death is in the air. This is only the beginning.
But before the military officer could give the order, as he was stepping away from the cruiser to address his men, the military officer's eyes fell onto the black case sitting beside William.
"Glasses?" asked the military officer, already reaching for the case.
What could William do? To dive for the black case would solidify his guilt, to do nothing would bring on an onset of more curiosity: what is this contraband? What is this black liquid? Do you mind stepping outside? We need you to come with us.
The military officer opened the black case. Measured, steady, unflinching gaze – like he was reading an important document. The military officer glanced up. He was no longer looking down at William. He was looking across. Something had changed.
He shut the case. He handed it back. He looked William in the eye. "Everything checks out. Sorry to delay you, Officer."
A faint smile on the military man's face—the smile of a conspirator, of a secret society member. William's subconscious always worked faster than his forebrain—suddenly he felt more out of his body than ever. Outside, the search dogs stepped away, the dozen soldiers falling back into line, and the military officer waving them by. The cruiser jerked forward, the motor rumbling frantically, the checkpoint behind them, and the gargoyles slipping away with disappointment on their grotesque faces.
Sorry to delay you, Officer.
Fear prevented William from swiveling his neck—but in the rearview mirror, the checkpoint grew smaller and smaller, the inverse of the terrifying realization growing bigger and more certain in his chest. The military officer had recognized the serum in the black case.
They passed through Canary Square. They had to take a long route to city hall—around main avenue. Here, for a moment, the monotone emptiness of the city vanished. Colors and light splashed the empty square: Yindel's enormous face blasted across the jumbotrons: a middle-aged woman with eyeglasses and a severe expression. She was speaking into the camera, her voice of a schoolteacher disciplining a student. And her voice—sharp, whipping, and biting: Batman, Suspect Number One. Batman, Suspect Number One. Batman Suspect Number one.
"Batman, Suspect Number one."He repeated it endless to himself. His mind worked automatically, putting all the pieces into place. It all made sense now: why Roland resurrected the Bat, why Roland had made such a scene at the bridge. He was distracting the audience with slight-of-hand; hiding the trapdoor with irresistible lightshow. While everyone chased the fantastical ghost of the Batman, Roland was tossing a grey hood over all of Gotham; a tightening noose, a gradual warming of the pot. And all the time unseen—like a dark magician disguising himself as a clumsy street performer: something so innocent and silly who would believe the truth?
They rounded about Main Avenue; William caught the sight of firetrucks and police cordons around the avenue; but as for the bombed site itself—he could not get near it. It looked like the investigation was still underway.
Hard to believe he was driving here a week ago, arresting citizens for trivial parking violations. Who could have predicted an entire building come crashed down?
The driver left William at the steps of City Hall—something in the driver's face of an empty shell as William mumbled a word of thanks. William watched the cruiser drive away, felt like he could glimpse into the future: by the end of the day, the driver's wife and children would be on a red-eye flight to the other side of the world, the kids fidgeting in their seats, an exhausted wife rubbing her face, and the husband, sitting at home, would still have that same look on his face, glancing up irregularly at a sudden creak in the house—wondering if that military officer had come to carry out the threat.
William turned around started up the steps. Like the night of the kidnapping, City Hall crawled with bodies. But instead of political luminaries, the steps were swathed in police detail: snipers on the roof, search dogs scurrying about, bomb-squad quietly ambling with their detection equipment before them. All along the Hall stood a hundred police officers, facing down the street. It was like they were protecting a military base.
William walked purposefully, making no eye contact, but did not look away from anyone either. Nobody stopped him until he arrived at double-doors. A small impromptu security station guarding the entrance. William greeted them with a perfunctory nod.
"I'm here to see Lieutenant Green."
A mean-eyed security guard looked up from a sudoku puzzle on his desk. "For what business?"
Lily Greene's hatred for the Batman was legendary; so was Yindel's. William decided to take a chance.
"I need to debrief the LT on a reported sighting of Suspect Number One, AKAed 'The Batman,'" lied William in his most boring voice. He then threw his hands up most dramatically. "My squad knew it was a prank call, but you know how it is. I just need to debrief the LT before she bites off my hand, man."
The security guard nodded perfunctorily. He went back to the sudoku puzzle. "Go on ahead."
William entered the hall—a blast of hot air and noise assaulting his senses, like walking into a wind tunnel. A huge crowd waited to enter the banquet room. An anxious crowd; a fidgeting, trembling crowd. The total opposite of the smooth, charismatic atmosphere from the Commissioner's retirement. William fought his way through the banquet room; this time, his badge did him no favors. He jostled for inches within the hot mess of tumultuous bodies. Reeking of anxious sweat and odorous breath. Suddenly the room suspended itself into silence, lasting only a moment, and the spotlights turned on. The crowd roared to a loud buzz, like excited bees swarming around their Queen Bee: Commissioner Yindel walked out onto the stage.
"Quiet," she snapped irritably at the buzzing of the banquet room. The buzzing evaporated instantly, and a reprimanded silence installed itself afterwards. William felt like he was back at school.
Yindel clamped her bony fingers around the edges of the podium, a gesture like that of a vice in a workshop. A short woman, maybe a foot shorter than Gordon, but her posture infinitely more erect. Everything about her strict: silvery mop of hair cut at the neck, navy pea-coat wrapped tightly around her, and rimless eyeglasses constricting her nose. An unbending demeanor, like a bar of steel. Lips as thin as blades of grass, and shoulders so wide they could balance the world upon them.
Her gaze fell upon the crowd: her eyes, through her glasses, enlarged to a slightly distressing size, like looking into giant insect's eyes. She pulled the microphone to her, adjusting it to her satisfaction, making sure it would catch her words but not her inhalation of breath.
She took her time. And everyone waited. Then, finally, mercifully, she brought an end to the silence—
"Working off several leads in the Gotham Police Department, as well as other agencies in the city, we have no reason to deviate from our original suspicions that the vigilante known as 'The Batman,' is our prime suspect for James Gordon's kidnapping, as well as the terrorist attack on Wayne Enterprises." Moving her head from the microphone, inhalation of air, then—"The lockdown of the city will continue until Suspect Number One is captured, or if we can verify, without a question of a doubt, that he is no longer in the city. My office, as well as the mayor's, will continue to coordinate with the local militia groups in order to accommodate civilians and city-workers with food and supplies. We understand that this is a hardship for everyone, but until we can assure that this threat has been neutralized, we will continue to act in the interest of Gotham. I open the floor to questions—"
A blitzing of movement as reporters fought and jostled each other for their turn at questioning. Yindel settled back nicely on her heels while the reporters tussled. She seemed to be enjoying herself.
A dark-skinned, exhausted-lookign reporter emerged victorious, holding a microphone to their sweaty, clawed-at face. "Hello, Commissioner Yindel. There are many concern and sightings of these 'grey marauders' around the city. Many believe that these marauders, not the vigilante known as the Batman, are responsible for the attack and—"
"Which people?" asked Yindel curtly.
The reporter fumbled for a second, flipping through a dozen stapled papers. "Well, various eye-witnesses from the C.A.R.E. program have said that—"
"Care," repeated Yindel, a satisfied smile on her face. Had she been expecting this line of questioning? "C.A.R.E. is a city-sponsored outreach program for the homeless. We took into account these 'witnesses' testimonies, and concluded that we could not trust the veracity of many who, by their own admission, were under the influence of drugs, or struggle with mental illness that may hamper their hold on reality." Yindel let out a small sniff of laughter, as if she couldn't believe she had to answer such a ridiculous question. "Next."
Another reporter emerged: dirty-blonde, elderly, and near-sighted. "Commissioner Yindel, there are many people expressing worry with the use of paramilitary forces to guard this city. Certain civil rights lawyers are filing suits of litigation in the courts this morning, claiming that their presence is, and I quote—'unconstitutional, dystopian, and unnecessary.' What does the Commissioner's office have to say about these—?"
"As I explained earlier," said Yindel briskly. "Our dependence on private security forces is a temporary solution: they are an alleviant, not the cure. Once Washington and Capitol hill mobilizes our national forces, I will suspend all militia activity. In the meantime, I suggest those civil rights lawyers take up their grievances with the federal government, because I myself am growing weary with the delay. Next."
But the reporter refused to yield the microphone: a resolute-looking woman, chin stuck out like a boxer. William realized she wasn't near-sighted but glaring. She was not going to back down. "Commissioner, many have reported that these militia forces use intimidation and violence to 'guard' the city. How can you pretend that you are safe-guarding Gotham while relying on a force that is the very antithesis of safety and protection? Your predecessor, Jim Gordon, once famously said that the justice system must bring in criminals 'by-the-book,' that if we rely upon their methods, we are no better than the bad guys. How could you do this?"
Yindel's bug-eyes glared mercilessly at the reporter. "Jim Gordon worked with the vigilante known as the Batman for years—something unsanctioned and unconstitutional. And do you know how he justified that? He said it to me several years ago: 'Sometimes in order to protect the people, we must do things the people don't want to do.' And right now, I have two-hundred tons of steel lying in a pit where—"
The blonde reported all but jumped over the lip of the stage. "Are you justifying your reliance on the illegal militia with the same logic Jim Gordon used to rely upon the Batman? Does that mean that the Batman isn't actually a threat?"
The crowd leaned forward, the tide sucking in closer. Yindel, for the briefest of moments, was wordless. Then her face contorted with scorn. The hate spilled out of her blown-up eyes. "I don't have time for rhetorical games. What I do have is a hundred dead bodies that have yet to be identified in the wreckage, and I have three-hundred wounded in hospitals that are struggling to accommodate everyone, and I have a dangerous vigilante running loose in my city. So unless any of you have any real questions, I'll leave the senseless speculation to her. Thank you for your questions."
Yindel deftly exited the podium, just as an avalanche of questions fell upon the podium. The reporters tried to chase her down as she exited the side-stairs, but a large security detail rebuffed them. Everything unique about Yindel marked her the total opposite of Gordon. Where he was crumpled, she was crisp; he mumbled, she commanded. He hunched, she stood up tall like a flagpole, looking taller and bigger behind that podium than Gordon ever did.
The security detail came down the banquet: all of them dressed in impeccable suits, their cuffs bleached and their shoes polished a foot deep. Again, an invited comparison with Gordon. With him, the bodyguards looked like a ceremonial afterthought. With Yindel, she was a Queen strolling about with her royal escort. And City Hall was her palace.
William followed the escort out of the banquet hall. He was unsurprised to see Lily Greene accompanying Yindel: it was the position of the right-hand man, a most trusted councilor. Lily Greene and Yindel were conversing in low voices when Lily Green looked up and found William standing at the entrance to the hallway. Her expression trembled for a moment before collapsing back into neutrality. That could be both a good sign or a bad sign. Then Lily Greene excused herself to Yindel and broke away from the detail. She headed toward William with a coldness in her eyes. She was not happy to see him.
"I know what you're going to say," began William, raising his hands, "but let me explain. I was sick. Really sick. I couldn't get out—"
Lily Greene stood inches away from his face; he could see angry Rorschach blots in the irises of her eyes. "Which hospital?" she seethed.
"I—I wasn't at a hospital."
"How convenient, Trevor."
Nothing convenient about her tone. And without a second of warning, she was grabbing the police badge on his breast, ripping it off so that a button went flying and the cloth tore.
"You're suspended indefinitely. Without pay."
Nearby police officers watched from the corner of their eyes: their hands on their belts, their mouths partly opened. William felt all the eyes on him—especially hers. Pitiless. Furious.
"I'll need you to surrender your service weapon, too."
He was out of his body. He was looking at the scene like those nearby police officers: what an embarrassing scene. Is she really firing him here? In front of all of us?
He barely had his gun out of the holster when her cold, irritated fingers snatched it from his hand. He had never fired it once; would he ever?
"You disappeared in the middle of the worst terrorist attack since 9/11." She was nearly trembling with outrage. "Do you have any idea how that looks?"
"I—"
What was he supposed to say? Recount everything that had happened to him? Tell her that a paramilitary organization had kidnapped him in the sewers? That they injected with with a super-serum? That there was no Batman, that it was a man named Roland who already controlled half the city? It was the worse alibi in the world.
And yet, it occurred to William, quite ironically, that this was exactly what he had planned to tell her all along. His face threatened to crack with a laugh.
Lily Greene exhaled forcibly; looking like she was struggling mightily to keep from swinging at him. "You think this is funny."
"I don't, Lily—I mean, Lieutenant," he said, regaining his bearing. "It's just—there's something you need to know. I don't know how to begin . . ."
Should he begin at the sewers? Start with Roland—the serum?
"I'm waiting, Trevor."
His brain worked too fast, much faster than his mouth. Lily Greene looked like she might explode with impatience, and before he could think of anything better, his mouth ejected a ridiculous string of words: "In the sewers—there's mutants in the sewers."
She blinked, she didn't react. In the end, she shook her head gently, and walked away. He was left alone in the hall, surrounded by cops who were pretending to be in the middle of conversations. But none of them were really talking, William could sense all of their eyes still on him, as if they could see through the back of their heads. Judgement. Humiliation. His chest ached with emptiness; like the empty spot on his lapel
William walked out the hall before his face turned any redder. First the black serum, now this.
What else was he going to lose?
His shame carried him all the way down the steps of the hall. A can of soda tumbling down the pavement. A bus-stop with a cracked advertisement of gorgeous women surrounding a roulette table: Century City Casino – the luckiest place on earth! Come here and score big, player!
His shame screened images across his eyelids: A whole new city, a whole new life. Bubbles of champagne and soft moans of women and ecstasy all the time. Go ahead, nobody is watching. Who would know—how many more months do you have anyway?
A violent car-engine ruptured his self-pity fantasies. Down the street came a large, black SUV with tinted windows. The kind of car that belonged to politicians and gangsters. It came to a slow stop before him. The tinted window rolled down—behind it, a man holding a cigar, wearing a dusty trench-coat. He was not smiling.
"Commissioner Gordon," said William immediately. He saluted. "I—I didn't expect you, sir?"
"That was the point, Rookie," said Gordon, squinting at William like he was a thousand yards away. "And you can quit with that 'Commissioner' nonsense. I'm retired."
"Sir, yes, sir."
Gordon blew out his cigar smoke. He tapped the cigar. He watched William.
"Well?"
William frowned. "Well, what sir?"
"Well are you going to get in the car? We don't have all day, son."
William looked around. Nobody looking at him; nobody to tell him yes or no.
William opened the SUV door and slipped inside. The SUV immediately lurched into motion.
A spacious and comfy interior, if very dimly lit. No wonder Gordon had squinted. William sat uncertainly on the black leather seats while the red ash of Gordon's cigar lit up the space between them: hazy and unclear in the smoke. William could feel a cough building at the bottom of his lungs.
"You smoke, Trevor?"
Gordon opened up a cabinet and produced an identical cigar. William's initial impulse was to shake his head and mutter a perfunctory 'no thank you,' but the events of the week spooled in his head like a never-ending movie reel: the butchered bodies, the sewers, the serum, the attack on Gotham, and now the empty spot on his lapel.
In his ear, a voice: How much time do you have left anyway?
William took the cigar. He put it in his mouth.
"You're as green as the tobacco leaves that wrapped this cigar, huh, Trevor?"
William froze with the cigar in his mouth. Gordon chuckled.
"You have to cut it first, son. Come here."
Gordon fished out a cigar cutter from his pocket and William held out the cigar. Gordon sliced off the tip and handed it back to William. William placed it between his lips, leaned forward, while Gordon lit a match in his cupped hands and brought this forward like a sacred offering.
The flames threw curling shadows all around the SUV. Gordon's face lit up in crazy, cave-man hues. "Breathe in," said Gordon. He leaned back and extinguished the flame; the SUV plunged back into darkness.
William pulled in on the cigar. It tasted like ash.
"Can't smoke in my own building, can you believe it?" said Gordon. He pocketed the cutter. Pulled on his own cigar; the smoke curling, misshaping his face into shadowy polygons. "The things that do change: no smoking in restaurants, can't swear at work anymore. And meanwhile look, the things that do matter don't change: this city, I swear. Turn on it for a second, and it all goes to hell. I wasn't retired for a single day before it all starts again."
I have to go outside and smoke. can be a bit crude. Not like Yindel, mind you.
It hit William all at once: the rush of nicotine, the suffocating odor of tobacco, the numbing of his mouth. He started to choke.
"Stay with it, stay with it," said Gordon easily. He was looking out the tinted windows: outside, streets and buildings slowly progressing on treadmills. "But it isn't all bad—first female Commissioner in Gotham history, could you believe that? There's a professional woman, if you catch my drift." Gordon tapped his car on an ash tray, then, sighed rather heavily. "Ah, it's not her fault. She's got to be a mean son-of-a-bitch to make it through the trough-line of GCPD. It's a sexist, racist pig-stye over there, and you to be mean to climb the shit pole. I got lucky, to be named that young—or maybe it's unlucky, you know?" He cackled darkly, like he was trying to cough up a hag of mucus, and then leaned back, temporarily spent of energy. "What a thing, to serve this city."
He went quiet; slumping on his seat, his belly curling up like a little mound of clay underneath his trenchcoat. The very image of weathered-out old man.
"You know I actually thought we won. Can you believe that, Trevor? I thought that this city could be something more. Just your regular, vanilla-type of crime. No more psycho penguins, black masked crime lords—no more demented clowns. Just a regular old place."
The SUV drove through empty grids of the city: no cars parked, no bicycles in the racks, not even a stray cat to be found. It felt like they were driving through a miniature scale-model of the city. Artificial, too clean. The black asphalt glimmering underneath the sunlight. Exposed grey surface of the sidewalk; bits of newspaper dancing in the gusts of air. Always lightposts flanking the streets like the ladders of a ribcage. Silence devouring all of Gotham. Not a pulse to be found.
William coughed again; he was having a hard time holding the cigar and managing the ashes.
Gordon frowned. "Why don't you kids ever speak up?"
He slapped down an ashtray beside William.
"Didn't want to disturb you, sir."
"So you thought you'd ruin your uniform instead?"
William look at the black smudge on his thigh. "I'm suspended indefinitely, sir. Might not need it anymore."
Gordon's leaned back into the plume of smoke surrounding him; a deep, chesty sound coming from him—coughing and laughing at the same time. A dying man's hack.
"H—hand me that water, son."
William handed a water from the console to the Commissioner. Pop the cap, and Gordon gulped mightily from the bottle, as if he had just run a grueling marathon in the desert.
The coughing subsided. Gordon wiped his hands with the palm of his hand. Through the dim light and the smoke, William caught a smear of blood across the back of the Commissioner's hand.
"So you're probably wondering why you're in this vehicle?" asked Gordon quietly. His hand was on his chest, resting.
William felt every limb in his body go limp and tense at the same.
"When I heard that Wayne Tower fell, the first call I made was to the homeless center in the financial district—You learn after so many years in this business that the people who notice everything are the people we don't notice: the beggars, the homeless. They can get anywhere, see everything. So the shift manager at the shelter told me that there's been a decrease in the foot traffic lately, says that was to be expected with C.A.R.E. kicking all of those poor souls onto Old Gotham."
Gordon tapped his cigar ash over the ash tray, meditatively. He seemed to regain his strength.
"But she tells me that the few still hanging around are barking nonsense. Raving about an army and a new miracle drug. She said that I wouldn't want to hear it—and I tell her: 'Janice, that's where you're wrong, because that is precisely what I want to hear.' So I drive down there myself, and I get non-stop ranting about an army crawling out of the sewers, about this magic powder or drug that turns anyone into a superman. And there's talk about a man dressed in grey, but they say he is not really a man, more like an idea, an entity, and he lives in the sewers, lurking down there like some alligator." Gordon puffed his cigar, looking inquiringly over the column of smoke. "So what do you think I did with that information, Trevor? All that nonsense about a boogeyman in the sewer?"
"I don't know, sir."
"I called Water and Power, of course," said Gordon, a flash of smile on his face. "I wanted everything on the sewers underneath Gotham: old maps, schematics, read-outs, water levels, whatever. I put in the order in person—imagine that, Trevor: me, the mustached albatross of this city, suddenly showing up on to some poor clerk's office, asking them for files that must fill up a library. I've been in bureaucracy all my life, so naturally I expected my request to take a couple of days, maybe even a week." Gordon lowered the cigar, and his voice dropped a step in his tone, as if the two of them were being lowered into a deep well. "But to my surprise, my order didn't take a week; they had everything I wanted all packaged up and ready to go. I said 'that's impossibly fast,' but the clerk there tells me that a young police officer had already made the same request, a few days earlier. That this young police officer—pale, sickly looking, with a crop of messy hair and intense eyes—took him on a joyride throughout Gotham, looking up murder scenes. And this officer, when I went to look him up afterward, just so happened to drop off the map after some imposter took me for a joyride around Gotham City. Isn't that just a coincidence, Trevor?"
William, who had long since stopped smoking the cigar, had forgotten to breathe. His throat was swelling up, his head going light.
"You can relax there, Trevor. I'm not here to threaten you. Unlike an old friend of mine, I don't frighten people much. Call me old-fashioned, but I try to be as straight with people as I can. So here's my brilliant, cobwebbed theory: you know something about everything's that's been going on. I'm not saying you're responsible, because I know who your family is. They were good people—are good people. The question is: are you good people?"
William blinked. "Sir?"
"C'mon, Trevor, they told me you were brilliant—that you scored a perfect on your exams. Don't make me have to spell it out now."
William still stared, dumbfounded. Gordon sighed and put the cigar away. He slapped his ashy palms together. "Alright, kid, here's the deal. If you want out, we'll take you out of the city. I still have that authority. You'll never be police again. But you'll be safe, and you have a family that loves you. You'll be alright."
Outside the afternoon was turning; the soaked red hues of dusk appearing at the edges of the sky.
"But if you want to stay in this SUV, you'll be with working for me, directly. You still won't be police, but you'll be a sort of 'secret' police. You won't be safe, your family won't be here to save you. It's not a smart decision. But I am in desperate need of your help."
William was quiet. He looked into Gordon's eyes. Was the old man telling the truth? Did Gordon really need him—William Trevor? Did he have what nobody else had?
"I think—"
"Hold that thought, Trevor." Gordon suddenly pounded on the glass. Slowly, the SUV came to a stop. They were at an intersection, at the heart of a normal heavily congested area. But today—empty and wide-yawing in all directions. To the east: main avenue feeding back into the city. To the west, the bridges leading out of the city, and the cold, placid river in between.
Gordon opened the SUV door – sheafs of crimson rays hovering in the cigar smoke. "Before you say anything, I want you to really think it through. Because I've seen better men than you or I go down in pieces because of this city. It's ruthless, especially to its heroes. Take your time. Ten minutes."
William stepped out into the late afternoon. The air sweet and therapeutic to his smoked-out lungs. The asphalt steady underneath his boots. The nicotine swirled inside him, and there spun the flotsam of his shame. He walked a little, stretching his legs, while the question resurfaced from the underwater canyons of his ego. The last time he had seen it was down in the sewer, right before certain death:
Is this what it means—to be a man?
He looked out over the river. It had nearly gotten him killed last time, that questions. How it had strangled him, imprisoned him. He hated his sister because of it; he hated his mother, his father. The people emasculating him, treating him like a little kid. He had only wanted to prove himself. And look what that had done.
The surf of the river glinted with a million bubbles. It whispered of the champagne, of the roulette girls, of pleasures and fantasies to behold. Why do it? Nobody was watching. No guaranteed medal at the end of the tunnel. Why not take what was easy for once?
He thought about his mother, his sister, his brother, his father. He thought about them for a long time.
"Well, son?"
William closed the SUV door behind him; his eyes had to readjust to the darkness. The parked SUV rumbled eagerly underneath his boots: where to now? William picked up the cigar, observing it like he had just found it. "My mom would yell at me if she saw me with you, sir. She'd yell at me for smoking this."
"That's what good mothers do," said Gordon measuredly. He watched William; clearly, he could not read the young boy. "They worry about their sons."
William handed the cigar back. "Crazy thing, love. More dangerous than this thing here. Makes you do all sorts of strange things."
The Commissioner took the cigar, his face splitting into a grin. He was understanding it.
The SUV headed East, back into the city. And William sank a little more comfortably into the leather chair, while Commissioner Gordon poured them both glasses of whiskey from the console. William recounted everything from the last week: the birthday party, the bodies, the sewers—Roland, the Grey Paladin.