Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
August 26th
14:00 EST
TV 18 Studios
"You look like shit," Lawless says, stopping feet from me. "And you're fucking late." Wayne and Fox stare nervously at us until Lawless attempts a haggard smile.
Blood drips from my knee and it nearly buckles as he puts his hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly, looking me over from feet to head. "Tangle with a cement mixer?"
"It was a Porche, actually," I state evenly, jerking my head to Wayne.
"For which I've offered my sincerest apologies—" he begins, but Lawless ignores him, hazel eyes boring straight into mine, delving deeper, our last conversation hanging heavy and silent between us: The old Berettas. The 92F's…you ever have one not work for you?
He knew.
He brings his head down to mine, our foreheads touching. "It's damn good to see you," he finally whispers.
August 26th
14:03 EST
TV 18 Studios
We leave Wayne and Fox behind. I am limping after Lawless, panting up the stairs. GCPD is everywhere. CSI, MCU, Homicide…I know nearly every face. Pain and exhaustion. I see them as though through a veil. No longer one of them, our worlds of sound and color, justice and order flickering together, only briefly coinciding…
Beaten, sweaty, shaking and fevered…I am nearly unrecognizable.
It's easy to see where the bodies must lay-a long hall leads to the staging room, and it's swarming with cops and EMS. Lawless shoulders through and I stagger behind, aching to keep up. Every step ricochets pain up my side, every sidelong glance bringing my guilt again before me.
Killer. Killer. Killer.
Lights flash, the media is here, CSI sweeps the scene, officers keep inquiring civilians and reporters away from that long hall. The blinding lights sear my retinas, leaving blue spots in my blinking eyes…
For a moment, I hear voices:
Sickofreakfuckingchildmolesterthey'llgetyouinpriso nyou'llgetwhat'scoming—!
Blinding flashing camera lights and pulsing arms reaching garbage thrown I am pressed, hemmed, pulled, dragged,…Dent is at my side and blows meant for me rain down on him. They shove me down the crowded white steps of Gotham City Court House, hands bound behind my back, a squad car with an open door waiting at the base of the long marble stairs.
YouwereapoliceofficerApoliceofficerweweresupposedt obeabletotrustyou—!
The mob is shouting, I am staggering. The riot squad is broken they rush through-
Tear gas. Rubber bullets. I am shoved to the ground. They take no chances-even my security detail wishes me a long, healthy life in prison.
Hopeyoulikeitinmemorialhopethey'rerealfriendlyhope togodyou'recellmate'safuckingdyke—!
They hate nothing worse than a dirty cop…unless it's a child molester. And I am both. They scream and mock, hurling insults, shoes, garbage and death threats. Dent covers my head, shouting enough already, enough!
Seewhatit'sliketogetfuckedseehowyouliketogetfucked —!
Can't see can't move angry feet wheel dancing all around Riot One calls for backup assistance people trampled underfoot Dent is ripped from me head slammed into the marble steps, taste of blood, ache of chipped teeth…
I am surrounded by an angry tide, dragging me, drowning me, pulling me under. I feel a pang: Angel. Is he watching? His beautiful face, his innocent eyes, running to Gerald who offers him the hopeful deceit of warm, loving arms. He is eight, a young eight. Much too young to understand. My words hang like a shield over me as fists rain down, men in Kevlar struggle to protect me: They will take me from you and lie to you and tell you I did those things to you and you can never, ever see me again because I'm a fucking child molester who deserves to die in prison anyway and the lies, lies, lies I will take and bear in your name because I love you, Angel-
Youwereapoliceofficeryouweresupposedtoprotecthim—!
Lights flash, women screaming, world spinning—
A final blow, a kick to the ribs. Vision blackens, Angel's lips part, they tear me away. A horrible, horrible doubt seizes me: Angel. Does he know it to be a lie? Or will this—all this—only re-affirm to him my guilt?
I blink, my eyes coming back from unfocused darkness; vision, hearing and consciousness fight through a growing, colorless haze. We reach the end of the long hall, the flashing bulbs dying into the background. I need to rest, to slow down…
But I'm so close. I just need to see.
Lawless slips in. I am checked at the door.
August 26th
14:07 EST
TV 18 Studios
"No civilians past this point, ma'am," Detective Crispus Allen holds out a strong arm to stop me. Montoya's partner. I've worked with him for the past six years. I see him every day at dual headquarters, yet he doesn't know me.
Lawless looks back as I fumble for my badge. Dmitri. Girls. Dogs. Swastika, swinging sign, broken tracks…
Allen snatches the mirrored sunglasses from his eyes with a large, dark hand, staring first at the badge, then into my face intently. Recognition and growing horror dawn in his deep eyes. "Paltron?"
I nod.
"Shit, woman. You don't look so good. Here, you need to sit down—"
Lawless puts a hand on his arm. "She's fine, Crispus."
They exchange glances, and Allen bites his lips, surveying me doubtfully.
"Stand down, Officer," I state cooly, hand extended. He returns me the badge and my fingers grasp it weakly. Cold, cold sweat is beginning to pool on my palms and forehead.
We continue on. The staging floor is right ahead, studio lights surround the narrow hall, miles of thick, black extension cord weave in ever-merging bundles along the walls. A group of EMS workers sits next to a weeping woman, face smeared in greasepaint. She takes a proffered blanket and rubs her face over and over and over again, the oil based paints slicking and matting to its rough fibers.
We round the corner, tile turning suddenly to hardwood beneath us.
One long, finger-like puddle of jellied blood has drained from under Holden's desk to the very edge of the staging floor. It is dusty and viscous, no longer bright. It ends, dark and ominous, not inches from my weary feet.
What is this thing you have done? Your brother's blood is crying out to me from the ground…
Killer. I am Cain. I can offer nothing to this silent accusation.
August 26th
14:15 EST
TV 18 Studios
All the world's a stage. The curtain opens, the spotlights shining down. Two men lay dead in the middle of the set, and the detective and his trusty sides kick enter the scene, determined, of course, to find whodunit.
But we were in the audience. We saw Act 1. We know even now the Killer lurks backstage until the next scene, when he will enter and kill again. The drama, to us, has lost its appeal…
This is a crime scene. Yet they treat it like a comedy.
Once CSI is done, cat litter will be brought in to soak up the blood. It will sit for maybe half an hour, then shovels will scoop it into biohazard bags to be ceremoniously disposed of at forensics. The Joker nearly decapitated Holden, splintered vertebra naked and exposed to the hot and stuffy air. They will bag him respectfully, taking samples of skin, hair, and blood before tagging his toe and sending him off to the Coroner. Over sixteen people were eye-witnesses, over a million television viewers can vouch for the murder weapon…and yet Gotham City Coroner's Office must make an official investigation. Nora Fields will continue the Joker's work, taking a bone saw to his already mutilated head, brain, heart, lungs and arteries must all be thoroughly examined and documented on…
Baxter's body too will be stripped naked, cut open, blood shunted, organs removed, a corpse defiled. All so they can determine succinctly that he died of 'natural causes.' And yet the criminal responsible escapes to the streets, loosed once again. Gotham's tax dollars at work, protecting her.
Lights flash again, CSI cameras, recording the scene from every angle, every distance…
Youwereacopyouweresupposedtoprotecthimyouwereacopw etrustedyou—!
I am disgusted. I understand their anger. I, too, am tired of the corruption and bureaucracy that allow criminals to stalk our streets. No more, they cry, no more!
It will be fourteen years to the day come this Christmas Eve. I look down to the dark, accusatory blood beneath my feet. If they call for a savior, how ironic, how bitter that it should be I who answers.