I ain't gonna lie: that's not why it took me so long to update. I graduated just recently, and now I have ample summer time…to get a job. Sorry, guys.
Chapter Eight
Patience
"Master Wayne, it might be a bit more proper if you didn't sleep in until all hours of the day. It's now four o'clock in the afternoon and you've barely made an effort to clean yourself up." Bruce lay stretched out across his bed, tangled between the bed sheets. Alfred walked in carrying a tray with orange juice and two painkillers. Tucked under his arm was the morning's copy of the Gotham Gazette.
"Fighting crime—"
"Fighting crime, Master Wayne, is just fine. But you also have other things to worry about. Like your reputation, for example."
"We've had this conversation before, Alfred."
"And we'll continue to have it until I snap some sense into you. Whether you like it or not, you are a socialite. People watch you and pay close attention to what you do."
"Anyone in particular?"
"You were supposed to be on the front page on the Gotham Gazette today. But instead, they wrote about some damn…puppy." Alfred threw the newspaper onto Bruce's lap. A small dog was pictured on the front with its owner: a slightly overweight lady. She was older, but that didn't stop the youthful grin she held from ear to ear.
"Well, it is a cute puppy, Alfred," Bruce smiled at the older man. In return, he received narrowed eyes and a grumpy complexion.
"Once again, you think it's all a joke. People expected you to have a remarkable, fabulous article, and instead we're left reading about Fluffy." He handed the glass over to Bruce as well as the painkillers. "So…any exciting adventures last night?"
"Here and there. I talked to Gordon."
"And how did that go?" Alfred sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped gently on his knee.
"Bertinelli—excuse me—Helena Bertinelli is in. She has every intention of going after the Joker…with or without me."
"You don't say?"
"Yeah. She is already a few steps ahead with research. I'm gonna stop by her workplace tonight to see if she's progressed any further."
"The name strikes a chord with me…extremely familiar."
"I figured as much," Bruce threw the painkillers in his mouth, following them down by the extremely bitter orange juice. "God, Alfred…did you squeeze the oranges yourself?"
"You can thank Florida's Natural for that. In the meantime," he pointed his finger, "what else did you do to earn such wonderful bruises on your torso?"
"Just doing what I do best."
"Ah, yes…pillaging across the town. In other words: you have no intentions of telling me. Am I correct?"
"Not unless you don your own cape and mask, Alfred."
"Helena, this is the first day you've not shown up for work. You called in earlier, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay." There was a pause on the other end. Ricky sighed. "Are you okay?"
"Nothing's wrong. You're going to have to trust me."
"You're not sick. You're not at home and—"
"Wait! How did you know I wasn't at home?"
"I didn't. But I do now."
"You sneaky son of a—," I sighed. "I have some errands to run, and I can't do them if I'm at work. It's just one day."
"Thank God you work on a flexible schedule. Otherwise I'd have some real issues with you."
"Yeah, really flexible."
"I looked at your records: did you know that you have two months of paid vacation time you haven't used?"
"What can I say? I'm addicted to work." I drove my car into a parking place, right outside of a rather small home-like building. I suppose it could possibly be a house, but I wasn't sure. A professionally made sign stood in a small and recently mowed patch of grass; it read "Dr. Eric Thompson, Ph.D. of Psychiatry". "I got to go, Ricky. I'm getting kind of busy."
"Sure thing. Let me know if you decide to take those vacation days."
"Will do." After closing the car door behind me, I snapped my cell phone shut and placed it in my purse. The walkway to the house was paved with a few blades of grass sticking through cracks of the concrete. Upon ringing the doorbell, I heard someone scuffle about beyond the door.
"Just a minute, just a minute!" I heard something hit the wall, as if a game of catch was being played inside. The door creaked open, just enough to have one eye peek through. "What do you want?"
"Dr. Thompson?"
"Mr. Thompson now, young lady."
"Right, right…of course," I coughed, trying desperately to clear my throat. "My name is Helena Bertinelli. We talked on the phone not long ago."
"I know who you are…what is it that you need?" he repeated, sounding slightly concerned that I appeared on his porch.
"Well, I was just wondering if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions."
"I'm actually quite busy, Ms. Bertinelli." Convincing him would be harder than I thought.
"I understand that, sir." Pausing, I attempted to break the ice even further. Perhaps a change in strategy would help. "What…what exactly are you doing in there? Sounds like remodeling."
"I'm re-doing my living room. New paint new furniture, new hardwood floors…everything. I'm quite busy." he repeated.
"Yes, sir. Perhaps you could use some help? I'm pretty handy when it comes to paint. No charge," I added with a smile.
He opened the door a little bit further, almost as an invitation, but not quite. He was looking me over, trying to guess if I was legit or not. "Yeah? What would you want in return?"
"I'd like you to answer some more questions about the Joker." At this point, he opened the door completely, knocking it against the wall. "Uh…Jack Napier."
"You got some sort of obsession with this guy? What's the deal?"
"I'm cooperating with some people, trying to track him down. Any information you can give me would be essential to the investigation."
He sighed, acting as though he didn't need the help. I'm a reporter…I read him like a book. "Look, Ms. Bertinelli--"
"—Oh, please…call me Helena."
"Right. Hell of a painter, you say?"
"Well, I wouldn't brag about it, Mr. Thompson."
"Grab a brush and roll up your sleeves. God knows I could use the help." He didn't bother waiting for me to enter his home before he picked up a hammer and started beating it uncharacteristically against the wall. "Go ahead and start with this interview…or whatever you call it." At that point, I realized that he was a much more pleasant and easier person to talk with on the phone than in person. Perhaps it was just the fact that his license to practice medicine was revoked. Whatever the case, I knew that it was going to be a long afternoon.
"Well, Mr. Thompson," I stated, rolling up my sleeves and grabbing a paint roller. "What do you know about the weapon, or weapons, of choice Jack Napier used?"
"M60s…The guy loved all things automatic."
"What do you mean by that?" I dipped the roller in the paint.
"We all have certain ticks—things that set us off. Jack Napier was a very impatient man. He always lived in the 'now' and hated to wait for anything."
"Do you have any specific examples?" I already drizzled a little paint on my sleeves. I cursed under my breath, but began to focus immediately on the task at hand. I had mentioned that I was good with paint to Mr. Thompson, but as a reporter, sometimes it's necessary to stretch the truth in order to get a story. Of course, this story would never be published, so my "honest reputation" wasn't at stake.
"Whenever he asked for something, it was a demand, as if he felt he was too important to wait for anything. 'I want my newspaper! Turn on the television, now!' He was like a four year old trapped in an adult's body."
"Did he watch the news a lot?"
"Every chance he got. He loved to hear about himself."
"So if he were ever to do anything again, it would probably be something outrageous," I pondered out loud, hoping that the former doctor would give some input.
"Go big or don't go at all, right? That was his philosophy."
"Hence the M60s, I suppose. A simple shot to the head could kill someone, but no…he wanted to make a statement. He wanted acknowledgment." I stopped rolling the paint and Mr. Thompson stopped hammering nails into the wall.
"Now you're thinking like a doctor."
"What kind of statement does he want to make, though?"
"That, I honestly don't know." While listening to him talk, I began to wonder about the murder that happened just a few days ago: Daniel Ashman. Ricky had mentioned the police suspected he was murdered by the Joker…but that just didn't seem right to me.
"When…the Joker murdered someone, he always used an M60, right?"
"That's what we've been discussing the past few minutes. Did you forget?"
"No. No…it's just…"
"What?"
"You watch the news, right? Local, I mean."
"Yeah, whenever I get the chance."
"Okay. Have you heard anything about Daniel Ashman?"
"I think I know who you're talking about: the middle aged guy that was murdered last week in the East End."
"I had a detective on the inside tell me that the police suspected the Joker. But no one, not one channel on the news ever mentioned anything about him."
"Well, hell, I wouldn't even suspect Jack Napier of committing that murder."
"Why not?"
"Well, the theatrics. Of course it was the middle of the day, but nothing seemed blunter than that. Four entry wounds and two exit wounds. That seems like a hard task to accomplish with an automatic weapon."
"I agree. But the police are smarter than that—why would they suspect him?"
"Daniel Ashman could have been associated with Jack in the past. The first thing the police would consider, if that was the case, would be Jack as the suspect."
"Why do you refer to him as Jack, Mr. Thompson?"
He smirked and began beating the wall once again with his hammer. "Because he can't stand it."
And I just finished typing the rest of this chapter on my new laptop! Thank God for brother-in-laws that are doctors and can afford such outrageous graduation presents! Once again, sorry for such the long update. I got stuck, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting out of the rut. Please review my lovely people!