Metropolis had its bad parts. Clark had been to most of them, either as a reporter or as Superman. But the worst part of his city was nothing compared to this neighborhood in Gotham.
He swung his head left to right, taking in the old brick row houses and apartments. Decay was the word that leapt to his mind. Dirt and graffiti covered many of the faded, chipped walls. A few buildings had their windows boarded up, though people sat on the porches smoking or shooting up.
He grimaced as the atmosphere of despair wrapped around him.
Drawing a breath, Clark entered one of the apartments. He gritted his teeth as he eyed the dank lobby. The tile was filthy and peeling. The air stank of mold and urine. A couple of cockroaches skittered along the wall. Sympathy welled up for the man he was supposed to meet. How could anyone live in conditions like this?
He took the creaky stairs to the second floor and walked down the hall until he came to the door mark 2-D. He knocked.
"What?" A gruff voice sounded from behind the door.
"Mister Brewer. It's Clark Kent from The Daily Planet."
A grunt, then the slow clomping of footsteps. Chains and bolts slid back, and the door opened. Standing before him was a tall, bearded dark-skinned man whose large paunch stretched out his t-shirt. He clutched a cane with his right hand. Clark's eyebrows knitted together. Mason Brewer couldn't be more than thirty. Not the age you'd think someone would need a cane to walk.
Clark showed him his credentials. Brewer eyed them for a moment, then jerked his head for him to enter.
"Thank you." Clark entered the small apartment, trying to keep his face neutral as he scanned his surroundings. The furniture was old and worn. Rays of sunlight illuminated clouds of floating dust. Empty beer cans and take out containers jammed the counter of the kitchenette.
Brewer hobbled to his chair, groaned and plopped down. Clark took a seat on the nearby sofa.
"Thank you for seeing me," he said.
"You want me to talk shit about the Bat? I got no problem doing that. Not after this." He patted his right leg.
"Batman did that to you?"
"Sure did."
"Do you mind if I record you?" Clark pulled out his digital tape recorder.
"Sure. Whatever." Brewer shrugged.
"So how did this happen?" Clark asked.
"Used to run with a gang called the Fifteen Blades, not too far from here." He pointed to the window.
"What did you do for them?"
"Usual. Sold drugs. Stole cars. Jacked up some stores. Yeah, I roughed up some folks, but never killed nobody."
Clark nodded. He sounded like the sort of person he'd hand off to the police if he was in his blue and red. But he needed information on the Batman's brutal history, and he wouldn't get it interviewing girl scouts and church choir members.
"So how did you cross paths with Batman?"
Brewer let out a slow breath. "We were dealing at Henshaw Park. Black Hammer, he was our leader, he had me on lookout. I went behind a building to take a leak, next thing I know there was screamin', shootin'. I poke my head out and there he was, the friggin' Bat. Kickin' everyone's ass. Then he looks up, looks me right in the eye."
He grimaced before continuing. "I had my piece, but lots of guys took shots at the Batman, never killed him. So I just booked it. Ran right into the street and got hit by a car. That's why I got this." He held up his cane.
"What did Batman do after you got hit?" asked Clark.
"Nothin'. I mean, he walked over to me, looked me over. I was scared, man. Thought he was gonna kill me."
"Then what?"
"He just left."
"He didn't give you first aid? Call an ambulance?"
Brewer barked out a humorless laugh. "The Batman? Call an ambulance? You think that crazy-ass cracker gives a damn about folks like me? He puts us in jail, or the hospital, or both. I did eighteen months in county lockup, and most of that time I was rehabbing, for all the good it did."
Anger spread through Clark's insides. Okay, Mason Brewer was not a pillar of society, but he did deserve medical help after being hit by a damn car.
"What did you do when you got out of jail?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just been sitting on my ass living off disability. Who's gonna wanna hire a gimp? Sure as hell couldn't go back to the Fifteen Blades. Can't be a badass when you're using a cane."
Clark just nodded. Batman may not have physically assaulted Brewer, but he had to be held accountable for his injuries. Not helping this poor guy after being run over showed a lack of compassion.
Even in war, our Army gives medical treatment to enemy soldiers.
His gaze dropped to the faded, dusty carpet in thought. He and Brewer had to be around the same age, but Brewer appeared to have given up on life.
Maybe if I got him some help, a social worker or something, he could turn his life around.
Sometimes however, people like Brewer did not want to be helped.
That doesn't mean I can't try. Clark resolved to call some social services or community organizations to see if they could send someone to see Brewer.
When the interview ended, Clark shook his hands and walked to the door.
"Hey, Mister Reporter," said Brewer.
"Yes?"
"You think this story of yours about Batman makin' me a cripple is gonna make a damn bit of difference?"
"I certainly hope so."
XXXXX
Clark continued his journey through the dark underbelly of Gotham City. It was a damn big underbelly. He talked to several people who either knew someone injured by Batman, or were injured themselves. A former mob enforcer was left blind in one eye from the so-called "Dark Knight" slamming his face into a brick wall, shattering his orbital bone. A teenage girl told him about the nightmares she had from the night Batman broke into her home and beat up her father, a loan shark. Then there was the prostitute who was collateral damage during a Bat attack.
"That smoke bomb went off, couldn't see shit. And I got asthma. Damn smoke gave me an attack. Almost died . . . No, the Bat didn't do shit for me. Just grabbed my trick and dragged him out the window, buck naked. He couldn't'a cared less if I died."
This was what he wanted. All the stories he'd read on Batman showed him busting criminals. They didn't show the fallout of his actions. The trauma, both physical and mental, that many would carry with them for the rest of their lives.
Clark had hoped to get more interviews higher up the proverbial food chain. He'd put in a request to interview one of Batman's "rogues" locked up in Arkham Asylum. That got denied. He'd also asked for an interview with Commissioner Gordon. He had yet to get back to him. That aggravated him more than not getting the interview at Arkham. If what Gil Merritt said was true, GCPD turned a blind eye to Batman's atrocities.
Well, not every cop turned a blind eye.
Clark's last stop was a modest office building in the Robinson Square neighborhood of Gotham, one of the few places in the city where he didn't expect a robbery or a drug deal to go down in plain sight. He took the stairs to the sixth floor, and the offices of Eagle Eye Investigations.
"Clark Kent, Daily Planet," he told the receptionist. "I'm here to see Isaac Rodriguez."
A minute later, a heavyset man with tan skin and receding hair greeted Clark and took him back to his office.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mister Rodriguez."
"Call me, Isaac." He waved him to a chair in front of his desk. "And it's no problem, especially if you want to hear the real truth about the Bat."
"I do."
"Heh!" Rodriguez dropped into his cushioned swivel chair. "Too bad we didn't have more like you in GCPD."
Clark took out his tape recorder. "How many years were you on the force?"
"An even twenty. Soon as I hit the big two-oh, I put in my papers, got my pension, and got the hell out of there."
"I'm detecting some bitterness."
"I think a first year journalism student could pick that up. Yeah, being in the department left a bad taste in my mouth. A lot better in this place." Rodriguez waved a hand around his office. "Instead of gangbangers, drug dealers, and psychos in crazy costumes, here I usually deal with cheating spouses, husbands who skipped town and owe a load of child support, and finding long lost relatives. A lot less stress, don't have to arrest anyone." His mouth formed a tight line for a moment. "Don't have to deal with a Commissioner who advocates vigilantism."
"Gordon," said Clark.
Rodriguez grunted. "He came in acting like some crusader, saying he'd fight corruption and get rid of crocked cops. Meanwhile, he became the biggest crocked cop of them all."
"How so?"
"C'mon." He threw up his hands. "When you're the commissioner, you're supposed to uphold the law. And last I saw, vigilantism is against the law."
"So why does Commissioner Gordon allow Batman to have free reign?"
"Gotham's a tough town. We've got the usual crime all big cities do, and a freakin' lot of it. Then on top of that, you've got these rogues trying to blow up or poison or freeze the whole city. I don't think Gordon has faith in the rank and file to deal with it. He feels that search warrants and due process and rule of law are inadequate against some of the threats we face."
Rodriguez shook his head. "But I don't buy it. As police officers, we have to be better than that. We have to uphold the law, even if we don't like some of the laws or even if it might hinder us from getting bad guys off the street. If we allow one man take the law into his own hands, ignore due process and civil rights, and beat up citizens so bad they spend days, even weeks, in the hospital, that's going to inspire others to do the same."
He slammed a hand on his desk. "Hell, it already has. All the Robins, Nightwing, Batgirl, Huntress, Gangbuster, probably the Question and Green Arrow. And don't even get me started on that Azrael whackjob. Before you know it, regular folk might decide to burn down the house of a registered sex offender or string up a teacher accused of molesting students or shoot some bank president because he foreclosed on some houses. No investigations, no trials, no consideration they might not have done anything criminal. Just go with your self-righteous feelings."
"And then you have anarchy."
"Exactly, Mister Kent." Rodriguez pointed at him.
Clark smiled. He took an instant liking to the former GCPD detective. Rodriguez fervently believed that the law had to be followed for the good of civilization. That as protectors of the peace, the police had act differently than the people they arrested. If they – or if I – just smashed into any home they pleased or beat suspects to a pulp, they were no longer protectors. They were just thugs with badges.
Or in my case, a thug with a big red S.
"You actually compiled a list of all the civil rights violations committed by Batman, correct?"
"Yup." Rodriguez nodded, picked up his iPad, and handed it to Clark.
He shook his head, his disgust growing with each story he read. Batman had thrown suspects off roofs and bridges, snagging them with a grappling gun just before they hit the pavement or river.
How much longer before he misses one and they wind up splattered on the sidewalk?
Countless criminals he'd sent to the hospital by Batman. Some had been so traumatized by the experience they had to be committed to mental institutions. A few were still institutionalized.
Breaking and entering, aggravated assault, kidnapping, threatening and intimidating, criminal damage, reckless endangerment – especially in his "Batmobile." Not just one count of each, but hundreds according to Rodriguez's files.
"Did you show this to Commissioner Gordon?"
"Plenty of times. He kept telling me to stop pursuing it, that the Bat has done a lot more good than bad. Of course, a lot of those meetings came after what happened with the Joker."
"What happened?" asked Clark.
Rodriguez's face sagged in a sullen expression. "A few years back, Joker broke into the Commissioner's place and shot his daughter Barbara, paralyzed her. Then he kidnapped Gordon . . ." He bit his lip. "Tortured him. Put him through some real sick shit. I may not like Gordon, but what he went through, I wouldn't wish on anyone. Anyway, Batman saved him. I guess he feels he owes the guy. That's why he let's him get away with all this crap."
Clark leaned forward in his seat. "Any idea who Batman is?"
"Well that's the million dollar question, isn't it? I've come up with some possible suspects. Nothing concrete. It's all just theory. The basics, white male, early to mid-forties, between six-foot and six-foot-three. Keeps himself in good shape. Most likely, it's a man who was the victim of a violent crime, or had a family member who was a victim. He's intelligent, athletic, skilled in martial arts, possibly ex-military. And given all his equipment and resources, he's well-funded. Either he has the bucks, or has a sugar daddy that's footing the bill."
Rodriguez took back his iPad and brought up the photos of four men.
"Your suspects?" Clark looked up at him.
"David Lusk. All-American running back from Gotham University. Drafted after his sophomore year, played two years for the Detroit Lions. Then his younger sister was raped and murdered. Went back to school to get his degree in mechanical engineering, and now runs a multi-million dollar consulting business."
Rodriguez pointed to another photo on the iPad. "Alex Solomon. Came from a well-to-do family. Joined the Navy SEALs. Parents were killed in a robbery. Then there's Stephen Turner. World Junior Karate Champion. Starred in a couple of teen action movies, made a wad of money before he was nineteen. Then one day his grandmother gets carjacked, shot seven times."
Clark eyed the fourth and final head shot. "What about this guy?"
"Mm. Bruce Wayne."
"Bruce Wayne?" Clark's eyes widened. "As in the owner of Wayne Enterprises?"
"The same."
"You think he's Batman?"
Rodriguez chuckled. "The billionaire playboy? Hell no. A guy like that loves his fast cars and fast women lifestyle too much to risk it by fighting the worst criminals in Gotham dressed as a bat. But . . ." He held up a finger for emphasis. "When Wayne was a kid, his parents were shot and killed right in front of him. And as far as wealth goes, he makes Bill Gates look like a starving college student. He may not be Batman, but a guy like that has the motivation and resources to support him."
XXXXX
It was early evening when Clark returned to The Daily Planet offices, chest out, smiling wide. Today had been a productive day. Not only did he have lots of personal testimony regarding Batman's cruelty, he also had three possible candidates for his true identity.
And a fourth who might know who Batman really is. He found the Bruce Wayne angle the most interesting. Very few companies had their corporate headquarters in Gotham. With its reputation as one of the most crime-ridden cities in the US, it would be hard to attract people to work there. But that's where Wayne had most of his businesses. Perhaps he had a special affinity for his hometown and wanted to take it upon himself to make it safer.
Even if it means working with a lunatic.
Could that lunatic be Lusk or Solomon or Turner? Could Bruce Wayne be supporting one of them? Yes, all three were rich, but even their combined assets didn't come close to Wayne's net worth.
Or he could be funding someone who's not even on Rodriguez's radar.
Whatever the case, he had some great leads, and was well on his way to one hell of a story.
"Kent!"
He turned to see Perry White marching down the aisle separating the rows of desks. He debated whether or not to tell his boss about what he had so far on Batman.
No. Wait till you have the whole story. That will really impress him.
"Yeah, Chief."
"Break out you best suit." Perry strode past him, talking over his shoulder as he continued through the bullpen. "I've got a big assignment for you tomorrow night."
Clark raised an eyebrow, noting the sarcastic tone in his boss's voice. "What is it?"
"You're covering Lex Luthor's gala for the Metropolis Library."
TO BE CONTINUED