The Commissioner really wanted to disbelieve what he had just heard. However, the numerous reports that sat on his desk, all of which had come at a fairly fast clip, just added support to the claim.
He could see that Petit was angry about it. Gordon admitted to himself that he wasn't happy about it either. He also couldn't help but feel a little impressed. That aside, there was a bigger issue here and it needed to be addressed.
According to these reports, there was a group of vigilantes in the city. It wasn't that he was unaware of them, but this was perhaps the first time any of them going by the descriptions in the reports were placed right in front of him. He didn't recognize any of them, at all.
More importantly, these vigilantes were able to not only show up his officers, but also break out a couple of their own who had been apprehended at Gotham Mercy. This could not be ignored, especially when their enemies were looking for any signs of weakness. It revealed that this group was better organized than some of the other would-be mobs that they had been taking down.
"We need to take these guys down, Commissioner," Petit was telling him, bringing the glasses-wearing man out of his thoughts. "We can't let them think they can get away with this."
Gordon leaned forward in his seat, his elbows propped on his desk with his hands clasped together in front of his face. "Do you know where these vigilantes are?"
The angry look that the SWAT commander wore on his face twitched, expressing frustration. "As of right now, no."
"Do you know how we can find them?" Gordon continued, not relenting.
Petit took a moment before answering, "Not yet."
"But do you have any ideas how we're going to find and take them down," he pressed.
Petit's visible frustration only grew. "No, Sir."
"Based on everything I've heard, it sounds like we have a group of vigilantes trying to fill the place that Batman left behind," Gordon stated. "We were never successful at arresting him. We never found out where he lived, never came up with a way to find him, and never were able to come up with any viable ideas on how to do any of the previously mentioned. Right now, I can't afford to divert any resources, or manpower into tracking these new players down."
"So what are we going to do?" Petit demanded from where he stood, again refusing to take a seat. The mustached man's arms were behind his back and that was probably the only reason he wasn't slamming his hands down on the Commissioner's desk. "Are we going to do that bullshit where we arrest on sight?"
"Isn't that how you managed to arrest the two you did?" Gordon pointed out. "Bill, I don't want to argue with you. I agree, we do not need these vigilantes out on the streets, especially now. Bane would chew them up and spit them out, and it is for their safety that I want them off. They may be breaking the law, but as far as we know, they are citizens too. So, for their protection, I will expand that old standing order to include these new guys. You managed to do it once before, and I have faith that given enough time, we'll do it again. None of them are of the Batman's caliber; we will get them.
"Until then, I need the rest of the reports on what the hell happened at Gotham Mercy. I need toxicology reports to find out why many of the people we detained looked like they all are having a bad trip courtesy of LSD. I'm trying to get my hands on what little security footage there is and having that analyzed. Maybe that will help us find out a little more on these newbies. In the meantime, you did a good job tonight, Bill. You and the rest of SWAT. Let's try to keep this momentum going."
Petit looked like he wanted to say something else, and Gordon was expecting it. It was what past anti-vigilante cops did, always needing to leave with the last word. Petit, however, nodded and took his leave. Hmm, perhaps the use of his first name had helped out there.
Regardless, Gordon was not pleased by any of this. By all accounts, the two vigilantes arrested were kids. Children, for Christ's sake. Where the hell did they find this equipment, some forgotten cache of Batman's? They needed to be off the streets and they needed to be off of them now. Before they did something stupid and went after Bane.
And while he was thinking about it, whatever else was infecting this city. This new group weren't the only vigilantes he was worrying about. There were also the sightings of another person dressing as Batman, but identified as the Joker. Like how he always was, no one knew where that madman was hiding out too. All that was left in his wake was destruction, but so far no deaths. That was a miracle in and of itself, but it didn't let him sleep any easier at night.
Pulling his hands apart, he placed his face into them, ignoring how his glasses were pressed against his eye sockets. No wonder he was full gray; all this stress was really getting to him and the exhaustion was making it so much harder to concentrate.
But there was no time or rest for the righteous. They needed to get on top of this situation and soon.
"Am I interrupting anything, Commissioner?"
A not very familiar voice, and it took him a second to recognized it. Lifting his head from his hands, he said, "Is there anything I can do for you, Lieutenant?"
Sawyer was in the doorway, half in and half out of the office. If she had any concern, she hid it well, Standing straighter, she reported, "I'm here to tell you that we completed the bust over on Clinton. That tip was right on the money."
Well, at least something was going their way.
"Carry on then, Lieutenant," the Commissioner told her.
Giving a nod, the transplant from Metropolis left. At least she had given him some good news out of all of this. Those tips were really helping them out; it was a shame no one knew who was calling.
That caused a frown to form on his face. It was very convenient that these calls were coming in and at a time when they really needed to make some headway against Bane. While he appreciated the help, it made him wonder.
For instance, how did this person know what a weapons dump was? More importantly, how was he or she able to give such precise information on the locations? The first raid had been at a storage facility with doors that had key and locks on them. Those hallways were only large enough to allow people to store large pieces of furniture, but even then you wouldn't be able to hide if you noticed people going into a specific storage unit and leaving with some serious firepower.
How did this person not get spotted and killed?
Why not keep quiet? If any of Bane's men had spotted someone there, and by some miracle not killed them, they would have gotten a good look at the tipster. After the first bust, you would think that those mercenaries would be thinking about anyone who happened to spot them.
There was way too much risk involved for a single person to give two anonymous tips about two different weapon dumps.
Now that he thought about it, there were only two reasons why anyone would call to leave a tip. The first, and most preferred, was that it was a good Samaritan just wanting to help out. The other was that the individual somehow benefited from sending in the tip. Such benefits could included financial, or an elimination of the competition.
Now he needed to hear those actual calls. Call it a hunch, but he needed to be sure that whoever sent in the tip was indeed the same person.
It was almost like clockwork. You could nail it down almost to the minute when the call came in. Penguin's future business partner had a demand for weapons that needed to be met.
It was back at the Port Authority, but the diminutive former crime lord didn't mind. This time around, he figured that matters would go more his way.
"You have those contacts? The ones you bragged about?" Bane was certainly straight to business, not that Cobblepot minded.
"Do I look like the fellow who would drop somethin' as valuable as that? My good man, I can get you whate'er you want by tomorrow night," he answered. "I admit, I didn't expect for ya ta call so soon."
"Do not patronize me," the masked man retorted. "Your boasts better be correct, or you will learn that I do not tolerate empty claims."
"I am a man o' my word. I don't claim anythin' unless I can't back them up. Now, 'fore we continue, I'm gonna need ta know what you all need and everythin'. Just because I can get ya what you need don't mean I know the finer details," Cobblepot replied, easily dismissing the threat. He knew that this giant hulk was more than capable of carrying out his threats, but you couldn't show fear to him. It was one thing to come from a position of weakness, but another to show that you were afraid.
Those red eyes bore into him from above—like it or not, his height had never been something to be proud of—and never left even as a massive hand plucked a folded piece of paper from his belt. Handing it over, Bane stated, "These are my needs that need to be met."
Unfolding the "grocery list," Cobblpot read over it. "That is some hardware yer wantin', but it shouldn't be any problem."
"Make sure that it isn't," Bane ordered.
"O' course, o' course, but 'fore we go our separate ways, there's somethin' you and I need to discuss," Cobblepot said. "Is this arrangement to be a permanent thin', or a one time deal? Personally, I would prefer the former."
Bane seemed to loom over him, examining the shorter man like he was an annoying insect, debating whether or not he would swat him for his insolence. "This is your test, Cobblepot. Prove to me that you are more than empty words. Once I have the shipment in my hands, the one you are promising me, then we will discuss a more permanent arrangement. Any who seek to do business must me have to earn the privilege; it is not something that is given."
"Fair 'nough," Cobblepot allowed. Either Bane was really full of himself, or extremely paranoid. Though, if it were himself whom the cops were raiding and hitting paydirt on, he suppose that he would be jumping at shadows himself. In spite of that, this was an improvement over being blown off. Now he could start doing some business and finish off the process of rebuilding himself in this city. "This'll be the start o' a workin' relationship, even if it ain't glamorous. You'll 'ave your guns by tomorrow evenin'."
"See to it." Bane was turning his back on him, stomping away. That man had some impressive strength since Cobblepot could have sworn that he felt the pavement under his feet tremble with each impact. It must be his imagination because no one was that strong. Not unless they were one of those people with the inhuman abilities.
Turning to his as-of-then unminded secretary, he remarked, "We 'ave work to do, Ms. Lark. Send the word to my contacts and let's bring us in a shipment of fun toys for Bane's boys ta play with."
"On it," the lovely Lark answered, putting a phone up to her ear. Good work, that, and quick too.
With almost a skip in his step, the Penguin returned to his car, confident that this was indeed the beginning of a not-so-beautiful working relationship.
Crane was doing a quick count of the cash he had on hand. After last night, he had been very impressed on the effectiveness of his fear toxins, both the aerosol and the liquid version. Even as he escaped from Gotham Mercy, he was in the middle of planning an expansion in his production line.
This meant that if he were to meet his vision, he would need to make sure that he had the cash to do it with. He was going to need some extra hands to help out, and with the state of the city, he figured that there were enough people who were desperate to make a quick buck.
Hmm, he was going to need an advanced payment from his one and only customer first before it could start becoming a reality…
Speaking of whom, someone was placing that payment right next to him and the former researcher didn't need to look up to have visual confirmation. Nevertheless, he did so while eyeing the briefcase. It was the same as the one in which he received his first payment—and was it him, or did it look like it was bulging a bit?
"Not that I'm complaining, but what seems to be the occasion?" Crane asked as he undid the clasps, flipping up the top and almost drooling at the sight of all those Benjamins. If only he had met this benefactor of his sooner…
"An advance," the Phantasm stated, withdrawing his gloved hand back under his cloak. Oh yes, Crane loved that look and once again wondered what it would look like under the effects of his toxin. "All of the toxin you have made, I need it."
"Going to make another attempt on Strange?" the thin, reedy fear connoisseur remarked as he was already pulling out the stacks of currency from the briefcase.
"No."
That stopped the man in his tracks. Had he misheard? Was the Phantasm here saying that he wasn't going to continue his mission to kill that arrogant son of a bitch? That traitor who had left him to rot in Arkham and to the merciless torture by the Batman?
"You're giving up?" Crane said slowly, though his sentence was phrased as a question.
"Withdrawing. The police have increased their presence around Strange and those vigilantes will only continue their interference. It is best to wait until a better opportunity comes along." The wraith-like killer was pulling away, making to leave. "I will return later to collect."
There was something about that that Crane didn't like. "When you say withdraw, do you mean leave the city?"
The masked killer did not answer, but if you were paying attention, the body language, even under that cape, gave away what this costumed man was thinking. It didn't take much to figure out that this person was a man of opportunity, going in for the least risky kills and retreating back into the shadows from whence he came. He was a professional and his every action was pragmatic; he didn't want to be caught, or arrested.
Crane could sympathize with that last part, but where did that leave him? He wasn't about to say it out loud, but he had formed a bit of an attachment with this benefactor of his. This was someone who hadn't betrayed, or abandoned him. He hadn't used him like a tool, working him to the bone and the very limits of his stamina and endurance. No, the Phantasm had commissioned him, was willing to put down payments in advance, and quite frankly had a well-designed costume when the fear factor was the only consideration.
Compared to the treatment he had faced from the False Face Society, Batman, and the City of Gotham, the generosity of this person was, well, addicting. The self-dubbed Scarecrow was about to let him leave this city, especially not when he had truly yet to see him in action with the fear toxin.
"I would suggest not making any abrupt decision, particularly in light of last night's events," Crane spoke aloud, licking his lips as his mind raced, trying to divine some kind of reasoning, or ploy, to keep his latest benefactor close.
The Phantasm paused, but it was one of courtesy, not hesitation. The killer looked over his caped shoulder, waiting for more elaboration.
"There's been...an...incident." Those were the first words that he was able to get out, but still he was trying to make them work for him somehow. But what were they to be about? What was this incident? All it needed to be was something that could somehow interfere with the Phantasm, enough so that it would convince him to stay.
Fortunately, the Phantasm was waiting, though his impatience was becoming noticeable. Even from the side of that skull-esque mask, Crane couldn't help but wonder what the fear toxin twisted it into—wait, that was something.
"I was...expecting a shipment—ingredients for the toxin—but it has yet to arrive," Crane managed to voice out, his words becoming stronger the longer he spoke. "It is a key ingredient, one that cannot be replaced. I...did not want to bring this to your attention because, of course, you have more important matters to—"
"Get to the point," the Phantasm ordered.
"I did some investigating and found that the shipment was seized," Crane explained, still bullshitting his way through this. It was all a lie at this point, but he was matching his words to his demeanor, to give them more credence. "At first I believe it was the police—" The cops? As much as he would want to sic the Phantasm on them, law enforcement was the last group of individual this killer would go after. Think, who else could...of course, "—but further investigation led me to someone else. There have been these armed guerillas in the city, men who work for this man called Bane. Since his war isn't working out for him, he's been pillaging whatever he can get his hands onto and unfortunately this shipment was a casualty."
It was all very plausible. It was also very difficult not to pay attention to what was happening in this city. Crane doubted that he was going to have to put forth any evidence of interference, but then again, there was nothing better than having something concrete.
What really mattered, other than hard evidence, was what the Phantasm decision would be in light of this. Would it be enough to keep him here, or would he decide to leave Gotham in spite of it? This was the moment of truth that the former psychologist waited to learn of.
"I will wait," the Phantasm decided. "Two days, then I will leave. Should this Bane interfere further, then I will take action. After, it will be your problem."
Not the best answer, but Crane had worked with less before. This was only something to placate him, nothing more. He would allow it though, since it gave him breathing room.
However, he had less than forty-eight hours to ensure that his benefactor remained in the city. Already, he was coming to the conclusion that the only way to make sure that this partner of his continued his onslaught would be to give him something to worry about.
It was a good thing he had already laid the groundwork for it. Nothing should grab his attention more than a "second" seizure.
Crane supposed that the bullshit story he had pulled out of his ass was about to gain some truth to it, even if he had to manufacture it himself.
Being a vigilante was harder than he thought.
The Joker sat in a chair, arms resting on the armrests, his thin body sinking into the rather comfy cushioning. His Bat mask was on another chair, somehow standing up so that its empty face could stare at him. It probably helped that its back was resting up against the back of the chair.
Really, the Joker had to give Batsy some credit. He made this stuff look so easy. Whenever he came up with a scheme, Batsy was there to unravel it, just like he expected him to. He even knew when and how the man would do it too, he was that familiar with him. But now, here he was upholding the man's legacy and he had a trail of collateral damage wherever he went. There was that gang-banger hideout that exploded, then that warehouse crashing down on his head, and finally Wonder Tower was in a giant pile of rubble.
It was as if everything he touched blew up, or something.
Batsy never did that. Most times you didn't even know he was there—ever. Yet, the Joker ran into so many people that he had to make quick exits using his smoke bombs. Well, at least he thought they were smoke bombs. Everyone seemed to run away screaming when he used them. At least that allowed him to slip away without notice.
Truly though, the collateral damage had to stop. What was the point of protecting Gotham if it was a giant bonfire? He only had so many water balloons to put out that kind of blaze! Maybe if he made a whoopee cushion that could hold enough air to blow it out, but that would be one mega-sized whoopee cushion. He was pretty sure that one that size didn't exist.
Then again, the people that invented that wonderful prank hadn't met him.
So how did one go about not blowing everything up? There had to be a trick to it, he just knew it! If the police could figure it out, then he could too!
The biggest problem was that it was so easy to blow things up. Off the top of his head, he could think of six different ways to set the little apartment he was in on fire. Throw in a few drums of gasoline and that would burn the building to the ground along with the ones next to it.
Oh God, see what he meant?! He was already planning on burning the place down! Bad Joker! Very bad Joker! No cookies for you!
The Joker shook his head vehemently. He needed to get his head back into the game. No more collateral damage unless there was a big fight and it couldn't be helped, and even then it had to be the bad guy who did it. There, that solved one problem.
Onto the next one then, because there was always another problem that needed solving. Perhaps his biggest was that the little brat at Wonder Tower unmasked him. There were bad people that knew his secret identity and there was no telling how much damage could be done because of this revelation. He couldn't hide as his society-friendly self when out of costume now. Gasp! What about his loved ones? They could be in danger!
Never mind he couldn't think of any loved ones, but if they were indeed out there, they were now targets. He couldn't let harm come to them.
But what if in the process of saving them they were killed since, ya know, every place he went to as Bat-Joker blew up? They could be killed while he saved them. Then he would be a lost, tragic soul, incapable of loving others in fear of losing them too. It was a vicious cycle that fed itself with every following corpse.
No wonder he was such a good bad guy. He didn't have to concern himself with these issues. Now though, he was being confronted with them and he didn't like it. Bats could keep his shoes cause the Joker was done walking in them. He stunk as a vigilante and there was no way he could get that savior status that Batsy had been upholding so well.
All these dark thoughts, it's no wonder the guy had such a reputation for brooding.
The Joker's mind stopped for a moment, a first in a very, very long time. Was...was he...brooding? Why yes, yes he was. His head perked up at that, his eyes twinkling as joy enveloped him.
"Yes!" he shouted with glee. He was doing it! He was brooding! He was a vigilante through and through! How had he missed this step before? It was so relieving! No wonder Batman did it so much!
Alright, he had his second wind now. There was so much that needed to be done now that he had his head back in the game. He needed to catch more bad guys, find that snot-nosed punk that pulled off his mask, and make him and his undoubtedly evil organization pay for whatever transgressions they had done because seriously, who would wear what they wore if they weren't up to no good. Then...then…
Okay, he lost his concentration there for a moment, but he was sure whatever it was he was thinking of was important. He was sure it would come back to him eventually. For now, he needed to get back onto the streets and let the entire city know that Bat-Joker was ever watchful, silently guarding the poor saps that lived here.
And maybe, just maybe, he too would earn a cool nickname. The White Knight certainly had a nice ring to it.