5:44 AM

It was a quarter to six in the morning and I had been sitting at the console in the cave for the better part of two hours, trying to make sense of the little information that I had gathered. After I wrapped up the events at the Southeast Dockland, I raced back to the cave in the batmobile using the time to gather my thoughts.

The evidence that I found in the containers—those dropped inside the warehouse and those still on the truck—was a bit troubling. Most of them contained industrial-grade medical supplies. I assumed it was all medical equipment and then I found a super-refrigerant and about twenty-five grams of cryopreserved flora of unknown origin. Maybe the equipment supported a mobile cryonics laboratory. But, what need did the Bloodroots have for cryonics?

Needless to say, I was not prepared nor equipped to deal with cryopreserved materials or super-refrigerants, so I managed only a small sample and left the rest for the police. I planned to run tests on the plant cells and see what kind of answers I could muster.

Just as I was roaring out of city limits, I received a message from Commissioner Gordon in a dead-end email account―one of the many thousand that I rotated weekly—informing me that Ivy's chief rival Reuben Jacinto and three others were found dead in Jacinto's vehicle in the parking lot of a condemned high-rise. He also noted that in lieu of the coroner's report, the cause of death was unknown. I didn't have time to wait for the coroner. My instincts told me that Poison Ivy was going to incite a gang-war if I didn't intercede. I wasn't willing to stand around while the body count rose. So I decided to pay Jacinto and his entourage a visit in the morgue.

I remember an old adage that read: Dead men tell no tales. Whoever devised that adage didn't practice in forensics. In my experience, the dead often told more than the living. Just looking at Jacinto's body told me that he had been poisoned. In fact, everyone in the car had been poisoned. The crime scene investigators and the coroner could surely discern the same but refused to make official claims so early without exercising all the cumbersome bureaucratic procedures first. In the meantime, they settled with Cause of Death: Unknown. Commissioner Gordon, however, knew that I had no such bureaucratic entanglements and would start investigating while the homicide division was momentarily paralyzed.

In addition to tissue samples, I lifted fingerprints from all four of the bodies as well as dental data. Two of the three other bodies were Jacinto's thugs. I had seen them several times—broken one their noses about a year ago. The last body I couldn't identify but I could tell by his tattoos that he wasn't part of Jacinto's camp. I wasn't sure who he was affiliated with. That'd take some research.

Regrettably, I wasn't able to spend more than twenty minutes with the bodies. Night security had interrupted my investigation. I disappeared without incident. I left the night watchman a souvenir, however; a bat-shaped shuriken. I placed it on a table where he could spot it. The urban legend of the Batman of Gotham City had to be fostered from time-to-time.

"I'm not that easy to sneak up on, Alfred." I smelled his cologne the moment he entered the cave.

Last week he was trying to catch me off-guard by sucker-punching me. The week before, he moved things on my laboratory desk ever so slightly to see if I'd notice. This week's obsession, however, saw him trying in earnest to startle me. I'm not exactly sure where he got these ideas but he definitely found it all amusing.

"Indeed," Alfred snickered. "Well, I just wanted to see if I still had it."

I kept working, "Still had what?"

"Why my baleful stealthiness, of course," he said ruefully

"Don't get down on yourself, Alfred. I'm not a Burmese rebel; little harder to spook."

"Perish the thought of the Dark Knight taking a start from his haggard butler. Why the criminal element would feel that they had been swindled with the countless dollars spent on throwing fodder at you, when all this time they could have hired me for a fraction of the price."

"You're street name could be the Butler. That's seems to be the general format in this city."

"Catchy. It'll strike fear into the hearts of men I'm sure."

He stood silently for a moment while I continued taking notes and then he spoke, "I must say, Master Wayne, most gentleman have pictures of their latest love interest or a famous super model set as the background of the computer desktop. Instead, you have several photographs of a redheaded, murderous, drug dealer. I really think you should reconsider your taste in women." He was referring to the pictures of Ivy I had affixed to her electronic file; several that I had data-mined from the internet and three or four that I had pulled from the police database—mug-shots and such.

"Suppose I shouldn't ask for her hand in marriage, then."

"No, no. By all means. A reputable pharmacist would do great polishing your good name and emptying your trust fund."

That was actually funny. Alfred seemed to be able to make light of any situation.

"So tell me, Master Wayne: How does a lovely, young lady like...her name escapes me...fall into such a profound life of criminal enterprise?"

"Her name is Pamela Isley; she goes by the street name Poison Ivy."

"Naturally."

"Thirty-two years old. Never been married. Born in Seattle, Washington to a Clarice Isley and moved to Gotham when she was six after her mother remarried. They lived in the Bowery below 232nd street."

Alfred grimaced, "Speaking of war-zones..."

"Agreed." I hit the page-down button and continued, "There was an extensive history of drug use and of abuse—domestic and otherwise; which ultimately lead to Ivy being put out of the house at age eleven. She lived on the streets for a while before being taken in by a bowery pimp, by the name of Jason Woodrue, whom she became a prostitute for, under the alias Ivy. Of note, he apparently used highly addictive drugs to control his working girls. Pretty textbook if you ask me."

"That would depend on which textbook you were referring."

"Anyway, she did three short stints in a juvenile correction facility each time being released back to the pimp―legally mind you―"

Alfred cut-in, "The Gotham City Officiate never fails to amaze."

"Tell me about it. Around age fifteen she showed up in Sacred Heart South's Intensive Care Unit. The official police report claimed that she shot herself. But I'm gathering that Woodrue shot her."

"Do tell…"

"Well…a year later he was burned to death when the tenement that he operated from burned to the ground. The police report suspected arson but no concrete evidence was ever uncovered.

"She then gets a job at a seedy club as an exotic dancer on lower 237th near Peabody Street called the Hour Glass Frame. There she developed a love affair with a local drug dealer who worked for 'Prince' Hakeem Farouq. That's where she learned the drug trade. She also did two more stints in jail, this time in Black Gate on accessory charges and contempt of court. According to the accounting documents, Farouq paid all her fees, fines, and bails. I'm sure, in return, she began working for him―if she wasn't already. Then the boyfriend turned up dead. Drug overdose. She laid low for the next couple years and started attending Gotham University majoring in..."

"Fashion?"

"Close. Pharmacology and botany."

"Ah. That old chestnut."

That old chestnut? I knew better than to ask. He was trying to get a rise.

"Her transcripts show that she excelled academically." I passed them to him, "even completing two degrees in three years."

Alfred looked the transcripts over, "You sound impressed."

"Criminals don't impress me, Alfred. They amaze me. They qualify themselves in society for the sole purpose of tearing it down. I don't understand it. Seems like a waste of time."

"Only the lion can truly understand the wherefores of the lion, Master Bruce."

I didn't know how to respond. I left it at that.

"In any case, about two years after she graduated, Farouq is rushed to the emergency room and pronounced dead-on-arrival. The prognosis: Poison."

"Curious."

"Thereafter, Ivy assumed control of Farouq's criminal empire. And here we are now, mired in the present."

"So it would seem." Alfred stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Admittedly, I'm a bit confused."

"About?"

"Abuse, drugs, prostitution, prison, and...college," Alfred's face pruned. "An odd combination if I do say so myself."

"It makes perfect sense when you consider that everything I told you comes from official documentation. So, I'll fill in the gaps with my professional opinions."

"Now we're getting somewhere. I do hope this one is cast of riddles flavored by the jokes and duality."

"Not quite."

"Rats."

"Anyway, Ivy tried to break away from prostitution several times but found herself unequipped; as is the case with most women forced to sell their bodies. She probably made a bold move against him—"

"Him?"

"Woodrue."

"Ah."

"—and he shot her to make a point―she was trapped. Characteristic of Poison Ivy, however, she's never stays locked-up for long and she's known for being vindictive. She murdered Woodrue in retaliation for the shooting a year earlier. The boyfriend, whom she met years later, introduced her to narcotics and Farouq. Farouq saw her as a prodigious new-comer―someone he could invest in―and took her under his wing. That made the boyfriend an obstacle, likely due jealousy...so she killed him. My guess is Farouq orchestrated that. Now, the operative word here is: invest. Most syndicated crime networks maintain dedicated legal counsel or political connections. In short, crime bosses send their own to law school or orchestrate the ascension of their own to some sort of political office; all for the benefit their criminal operations."

Alfred began wiping a workstation with a rag, "Indeed."

"If I were a drug lord bent on flooding the streets with a product that no else could rival, I'd have to produce a drug that no one else could duplicate. Hence, Farouq sees Ivy enrolled at Gotham University―"

"Studying in the disciplines of Botany and Pharmacology."

"Exactly. And, just a few short years later, Ivy realizes that she doesn't need to be working for someone she feels she is better than―"

"So, she poisons Farouq―"

"―takes over his empire, renames his gang the Bloodroots after a highly toxic plant, and calls herself Poison Ivy as credence to her most notorious murder method and as a head-nod to her ascension."

"I'm going to base a Broadway play on this. I'm going to title it: 'A Cape, A Cowl, A Growl, and A Scowl: A Vigilantes Tale.'

I shook my head. He was incorrigible at times.

"Would you care for coffee, sir?"

I didn't reply. A picture of Poison Ivy, taken at a boxing match, caught my attention. It pierced me at some level―the picture, that is. Not sure what about it. Maybe, I could sense the loss that was hidden behind her golden smile. She was definitely not at a loss of looks, that's for sure. She was every bit as ruthless as she was attractive. But in her face I could see that unquenchable need to fill a void. That motivated her to action. I could sympathize.

He cleared his throat, "Coffee, Master Wayne."

"No, Alfred. I'm going to get some sleep. I plan to pay Ivy a visit tonight and I need to be rested."

"Might I suggest that you use the bed this time? I think the batmobile could use some space."