5

Trista stood outside the Asylum as police and EMS buzzed around like angry hornets. She spotted Dr. Hilleman with a few of the other doctors standing to the side and watching the activity. He smiled when he saw her and waved her over.

"Asylum's closed today. An orderly was killed." He said as he nodded to the police. Trista looked shocked but really she was annoyed. This was going to set her back, maybe even undo some of the progress she'd made with Adams.

"What happened?"

"Mr. Zasaz happened. One of the orderlies, a new guy I'm sure, got too close before Zasaz was fully secured and he grabbed him. The kid was dead before the ambulances got here."

Trista was relieved slightly, at least it couldn't be blamed on her.

"How long until the Asylum is open again?"

"I think they'll start letting visitors back in after a couple days. Looks like you've got some time off." He smiled at her suggestively and she gave him a bashful smirk. Great, what the hell am I supposed to do until then? She thought as they watched the police come and go.

She recognized one of the cops from her many trips to the GCPD and managed to get the story out of him. It seems Mr. Zasaz slipped one of his restraints as the young orderly was securing him and grabbed the man by the throat, crushing his trachea like an empty soda can and strangling him before the others could get him off. He did all this while under enough tranquilizers to bring down a bull. No one knows how he did it. Trista was stunned. She left the commotion around the asylum lost in her own thoughts.

Hilleman caught up with her on her way to the bus stop. Trista rolled her eyes, in no mood for his puppy love bullshit.

"Hey! Seeing as we're both out of work today, you want to get some lunch?" Trista could see the anxious excitement in his eyes and almost turned him down.

"Doctor " She said in mock surprise. "Are you asking me out on a date?" She watched him stammer and back track nervously and after she couldn't watch anymore she agreed.

They ended up finding a sandwich place downtown. They sat in the back booth while tinny music drifted to them from the kitchen.

"So have you ever seen him?" Trista asked. Hilleman shook his head.

"I mean, I've seen him on TV, on the news, but never face to face. I've only been here a few years. I know people who've seen him, but I never have. I can see why some people think he's a myth." He finished off his sandwich and rolled the wrapper into a ball. Trista looked over at a kid wearing a shirt with the symbol of the Batman on it.

"You think he apporves all that merchandise they put out? Do they send him scripts for the movies and TV shows?" Trista rolled her eyes. She hated the way our culture took anything interesting and original and duplicated it until it becomes meaningless. Like when you say a word over and over until it loses all meaning and becomes strange phonic sounds. Hilleman shrugged.

"I think Wayne Studios owns the rights to it. Its not like a wanted vigilante can file a copyright claim on his image. Maybe Bruce Wayne made a deal with him? Or he IS him, like some people think." He had yet to look Trista in the eyes and it was getting on her nerves. Get over yourself already.

"Wayne had been in a wheelchair since the 60's after someone tried to kill him because they thought he was the Batman. Everything he's said since then indicates that he resents the Batman for it. He probably copyrighted his symbol and image to spite him. Now its worth millions. I guess two wrongs can make a right." Hilleman laughed and nodded noncommittally. Trista was finding him more and more boring. She wanted him to say something interesting, to disagree with her, to make some kind of effort besides trying not to do anything stupid in front of her. Maybe she has been spending too much time talking with psychotics. She had forgotten how to talk to normal people, or maybe she just lost her taste for normal people. Either way, she was quietly seething as he made small talk.

"Is there anyone outside of Arkham who fits the super criminal profile?" She asked, interrupting his story she had been ignoring. She was hoping for disapproval, maybe a polite rapprochement. But of course he just answered her as though he hadn't been talking and Trista had to hide her eyes rolling by looking away.

"I guess there's Blackgate. Its mostly guys who work for the super criminals, but there are a few who either aren't dangerous enough or crazy enough to be sent to Arkham. A few mob bosses, I think the Penguin is serving time there."

Trista perked up. "Penguin." She had forgotten about him. He wasn't technically a super criminal, since his eccentricities were limited to a nickname and a love of birds, but he is still one of the most influential crime lords in Gotham and he has gone toe to tow with the Batman more than once. Trista decided he might be worth a look after all.

The next morning Trista sat in a plain prison visitor room at Blackgate. The files in front of her had the name Oswald Cobblepot across the front and a stout older man with dark hair and sharp features sneered up from the mugshots. For most of his life in Gotham he was considered a legitimate businessman. He owned a successful restaurant and lounge in downtown Gotham and was at one time ranked among the most successful entrepreneurs on the east coast. It was only during his unsuccessful run for mayor of Gotham that his shady business practices and connections with the criminal underworld came to light. He was currently serving a scant 7 years at Blackgate for fraud and extortion.

He came in wearing a simple black vest with a white shirt and slacks, his dark hair slicked back. He stood no more than 4 feet tall and his limbs were stumpy and thick. He had all the hallmarks of dwarfism, enlarged forehead, uneven gait, upturned nose. He was about 47 and had gained considerable weight since he'd been arrested. Even so, there was an intensity to him that stifled any humor you might find in his appearance. He looked at Trista with a practiced polite smile and offered his hand. Trista shook it gently and noted his ice blue eyes which scanned her subtly. It was clear from his demeanor and clothes that his wealth has softened prison life for him considerably. The guards, which had insisted on being present when she spoke with the other prisoners, had given them privacy. He sat across from her and lit a long cigarette, offering one to her politely. She declined only because she believed he only offered it as a gesture and would rather she didn't actually take one. As he drew the smoke into his chest he motioned to the room and said.

"What brings you to visit the world renowned criminal rehabilitation center known as the Arthur Blackgate Maximum Security Correctional Facility?"

"I'm writing a series of articles about the super criminal phenomena and I'd like to include you."

Oswald chuckled amiably and tapped his ash onto the tabletop. "You think I am one of those, what did you call them? Super criminals? Where do you publish?"

Trista pulled a copy of Cognition out of her bag and passed it to Oswald. He looked at it speculatively and nodded. "A psychological journal. I'm afraid you won't find me all that interesting, for you see, I am quite sane."

"Yet you exhibit many of the same tendencies. You have an alias, you tend to work within a theme, and you've had frequent run ins with the Batman."

Oswald let out a grunt and sneered down at the magazine. "I must say, the Batman certainly brings these things out in people. He is like a barrel of radioactive waste dropped in a pond and now everything he touches either withers or mutates."

Trista made a note to remember that and use it in a later article. She only wished she's thought to turn her recorder on before now. As she dug the recorder out of her bag to set it up she asked him,

"Why do you call yourself the Penguin?"

Oswald leaned forward onto his elbows and tapped the last of his cigarette out on the table before lighting another. He regarded her with some amusement.

"Let me tell you something about yourself first. Firstly, I know you'd never considered me for one of your articles and if you did, you'd dismissed me. I know about the recent troubles at Arkham which is why you began dipping into your backlogs for anyone not currently a patient at Arkham, which brought you to me. I know all this because I know you don't think much of me. People see me, they may laugh or feel pity, then they forget me. Even in the criminal underworld the sight of a midget in a tuxedo who walks like a penguin does little to intimidate or inspire respect, but I'll tell you something. When the name Penguin enters their lives they sit up and take notice. When they start losing business and territory to a midget in a penguin suit, they stop laughing. Of course by then it's too late. Let me tell you why they call me the Penguin, and more importantly, why I call myself that."