Ernestina, Eris, Aequitas: to obtain that which is just we must ask that which is unjust.
AN: This chapter is rated M for violence, sexual reference and language.
For clarification: The events depicted in this chapter occurred on August 23rd, the morning the video containing Connolly's death was released by the FBI. This chapter fills in the timeline of the story between Eris Unleashed and Lacrimosa. Kyle Santy's murder was referenced in a flashback concerning Abram Bramowitz and Jonathan Crane in En Nomine Patris. And if you want to meet the real Dr.'s Mattews and Stanley, go find them in Beowulfwulf's a Psychic among Gotham Psychos!
The following information was compiled by Operation WATCHDOG concerning the personnel file of GCPD Detective Jimmy Connolly.
Name: Jimmy Connolly
Rank: Detective (Partner: Lawless, Aaron)
DOB: 12/13/2007
Height: 5' 9'' (Amended 5/13/30 from 5' 4'')
Weight: 127 lbs. (Amended 5/13/30 from 97 lbs)
Physician's Note: While growth spurts at this age are relatively uncommon, there exists established precedent for significant development for those with lower pediatric percentile rankings that can signify the end of puberty. [This phenomena] is also noted in military and other institutional facilities with standardized exercise programs in those not previously physically active. Hormone function tests came back negative for increased amounts of HGH signifying pituitary adenoma, and drug tests were negative for the presence of synthetic testosterone. X-rays of the long bones indicate epiphyseal fusion has not yet occurred. Detective Connolly will be monitored for further skeletal changes.
Race: Caucasian
Religious preferences: Non-denominational Christian (revised from Roman Catholic)
High School Education: GED
University: Gotham University
Degree: BA
Major: Criminal Justice
Rank: 57/103
Cumulative GPA: 3.1
Comments: Freshman Academic Advisor notes reading deficits, with strong dyslexia, in addition to poor interaction with social peers.
"Jimmy Connolly struggles as a student due to past academic handicaps often common in males entering the primary educational system at a later age. In spite of this, he applies himself well to academic challenges, and refuses the label of 'learning impaired' for testing purposes. However, many professors have noted [Jimmy] does not work well in groups, and that he is perceived socially backward…awkward…poorly socialized…disliked by peers… 'ostracized, mercilessly bullied, purposefully excluded from social functions'. When asked, he is unwilling to discuss emotional or personal issues and has declined referrals to resources such as Student Mental Health Services. Student Health Clinic notes physical underdevelopment on Tanner scale for age group, ranking in the 15th percentile. [This] in addition to emotional and social difficulties may serve as indicators of difficult childhood. My consistent impression is of a young man who was 'left behind' academically and who exhibits poor social dynamics especially with other males. Objectively, I must note that these combined impressions are indicative and classic signs of being raised in an abusive environment and/or in absence of a stable father-figure."
-Melea Kirkov, Freshman Academic Advisor Gotham University
Extracurricular Activities/Former Employment: AFT notes extensive underage involvement in sting operations revoking tobacco and liquor licenses to establishments selling to minors. DEA also confirms his testimony played a crucial role in charging and sentencing three GCPSC personnel and 15 students in the illegal sale of prescription narcotics and manufacture of recreational drugs on GCPSC property.
Criminal Record: Juvenile possession/selling of controlled substances/bringing controlled substances onto school property: charges dropped and record expunged. AFT vouches to Narcotics division that Connolly was in fact part of undercover sting operation BUSTED, attempting to gain hard evidence of illegal storage and purchase of alcohol by minors on GCPSC property. AFT further states they were currently unaware the greenhouse facilities were also being used to manufacture methylamphetamine. A write-up of the incident was submitted for review by both law enforcement divisions, and all parties agreed to take affirmative steps towards more open communications in the future.
Additional Note by IAB: DA Carl Finch took the AFT to arraignment for charges of reckless endangerment of a minor. The case was dismissed by Judge Surillo as it would compromise 13 other ongoing investigations of a similar nature. Surillo claimed voluntary military enlistment pre-majority as a precedent for her ruling. AFT Captain Jonathan McClain was indicted and convicted of Custodial Interference in Family Court by Gotham County Child Protective Services, serving a year of suspension without pay.
Community Service Record: Sisters of Mercy Pantry: 2027 through present. Shop with a Cop Christmas Charity: 115 lifetime hours. Wayne Legacy Scholarship Program: 800 lifetime hours (requisite of 200 yearly hours of volunteer work through local charities to remain eligible for free schooling at a Gotham City Public Higher Education Facility of student's choosing). Stop the Violence: April 2030 through present.
Letters of Recommendation:
I was first introduced to Jimmy Connolly during my career as Assistant District Attorney. Since that initial encounter I have been consistently appreciative of his unwavering honestly, sincerity, and strength of character. I am well acquainted with this young man from a professional standpoint, and understand he has overcome severe hardships in his life. However admirable I find these traits, I would have reservations recommending him for your program due to his age and lack of experience. Jimmy Connolly can be extremely mature for his age and peer group but interacts quite poorly with them, as well as psychological services. I believe he seeks to act in other's best interests but I frequently find him to be lacking in social discernment. As a legal professional, I feel there are personality traits that Jimmy Connolly exhibits due to his youth and poor socialization that must first be met before I can recommend him for matriculation to your law enforcement program. -Rachel Dawes, ADA
Jimmy Connolly and I were introduced in my laboratory during the course of Forensic Criminology 201, summer semester 2027. As an instructor I would describe Jimmy as diligent, responsible, and strikingly honest. He has consistently striven to do his best in his coursework and possesses great intelligence and deductive reasoning skills. He has been a joy as a student and I look forward to continued interaction during his career. Sincerely, -Nora Fields, MD/PhD Gotham County Coroner
Jimmy Connolly was first brought to my attention at a national police academy training conference at Quantico, Virgina. During this conference, some of the nation's most promising young law enforcement students met to undergo what I would describe as voluntary hazing to test their reasoning and emotional capacities under intense stress in a controlled climate. A week into the program, an altercation occurred resulting in the dismissal of 8 of the participants for aggression and violence, with three being charged criminally for hate crimes. As I was witness to the event, I found it to be my duty to vouch to the behavioral board for Jimmy's participation in the fight, and to seek his re-instatement into the simulation program. When a female student who openly expressed her sexual orientation to classmates was struck repeatedly and verbally degraded Jimmy went to her aid with no regards for his own personal safety. When I subsequently interviewed all participants and witnesses to the event during an official investigation, Jimmy again distinguished himself by offering no excuses for his involvement. His signed statement simply read 'Guys don't hit girls. It doesn't matter if they're gay or whatever, you don't hit girls and you don't let them get hit.'
Jimmy Connolly completed the simulation with professionalism and courtesy towards other participants and facilitative staff. Despite his age, he consistently handled the burden of stress of physical and mental exhaustion placed upon our trainees with the maturity of an experienced veteran. I was proud then to serve as a character reference in getting him re-instated to the Quantico training, and it is an honor for me to now recommend him with highest regards to your law enforcement program. Sincerely,-Renee Montoya, GCPD Homicide Detective
Let's skip the bullshit. Jimmy Connolly don't look like much, but the brother's got a good head. Good heart. You'd be a fucking idiot not to hire him. -Crispus Allen, GCPD Homicide Detective
To Whom it May Concern,
It is my understanding that Mr. Connolly, a Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholar, has recently graduated from Gotham University with a BA in Criminal Justice. I would like to take this opportunity to commend him for his pursuit of academic excellence evidenced by a consistent grade point average and timely graduation, as well as the sense of initiative and self-discipline inherent for the fulfillment of his required community service hours.
Mr. Connolly exemplifies the Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholarship's intention of aiding deserving students in financial need. As such, I find him most assuredly worthy of consideration for employment. –Alfred Pennyworth, Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholarship Committee Chair
I have not much to say concerning Jimmy Connolly other than I hate to lose such a fine candidate to the GCPD, but unfortunately for my department he has been quite insistent upon his chosen career. I congratulate you on such a great catch, as truly compassionate and enthusiastic law enforcement officers in any field are increasingly hard to come by. With all my best regards, -Dan Murray, FBI Gotham City Field Office Director
IA Tribunal Hearings: Connolly vs. Board (See also Paltron vs. Board #8)
"It is my professional opinion that Detective Connolly should be asked to resign from his position as a law enforcement officer due to past psychological trauma that clearly influences his objectivity and ability to perform his duties with the emotional distance necessary for the Homicide Department. Preferred treatment would include re-socialization by means of psychotherapy and participation in a Domestic Violence Support Group. I again must express my utmost concern that Detective Paltron has been allowed to remain on the force in spite of her unprofessionalism and numerous documented emotional instabilities. Due to her documented tendencies towards aggression, physical intimidation, gratuitous violence and blatant disrespect for the due process of law I find her to be a danger to herself and society as well as a liability to the Gotham City Police Department. Recommended actions include immediate dismissal from service followed by incarceration at a Mental Health Facility for the benefit of the public until a more specific psychiatric diagnosis and treatment regimen can be made." -Dr. Harleen Quinzel
After review by the GCPD Board of Behavioral and Correctional Services, Detective Connolly was found to be acting within the scope of his duties as a law enforcement officer for charges against him concerning reckless endangerment of co-worker Anna Ramirez on March 2nd, 2030.
Detective Paltron was also found to be acting in the scope of her duties on March 2nd, 2030. Charges of Police Brutality and Excessive Force were dropped, but Detective Paltron was held in contempt of court after dry-firing a court officer's side arm at court-appointed psychological consult, Dr. Harleen Quinzel while on the stand [Note: the subsequent objectivity of Dr. Quinzel's clinical findings was called into question]. Disciplinary action against Detective Paltron to be taken at the discretion of commanding officer, Commissioner James Gordon.
Psychological Services: Detective Connolly seems distant, and avoids direct answers about his personal life and past. When pressed, he admits to a distrust in psychotherapy as a field and the confidentiality of the system. Below is a taped recording of a mandatory bi-annual self-awareness session supervised by Dr. Chase Meridian. It was revealed during the course of the interview that Detective Connolly had been prompted by the Internal Affairs fraud committee.
Connolly: I think you honestly believe what you do is helpful, and I admire you for it-like a lot-but I've got good friends. I've got a family. For the first time in my life, I have a Dad. So when I'm stuck on something, when this gets…when it's too much, you know, I go to him. I know I can go to him. And I do. That's a lot more wholesome than talking to a stranger, right? Pshink or not. That's what you're here for, right? You talk to us twice a year, make your little write up…but what you really want to know is if we've got our own support systems. And I do. I really, really do.
Psych: You mentioned issues. What sort of issues?
Connolly: Like the kind you talk about with your Dad. Look, I've started to work out-you'd never know from looking, right?-and sure, I could eat better. But I worked with AFT and Narcotics as a kid, so cigarettes and drugs just gross me out. Plus I have like zero alcohol tolerance, too, so drinking has never appealed to me. It smells horrible and who wants to be puking in the toilet all night?
Psych: You want me to know you don't have any addictions. And that's admirable, Jimmy. But I've been on this job for a long time, I get…what's the beat term for it? Gut feelings? And I've got gut feelings that you're hiding something from me. Maybe something you're embarrassed about. Maybe something like…oh, internet pornography, for instance.
Connolly: [silence]
Psych: Do you struggle with an addiction to pornography, Jimmy?
Connolly: Look, if this is about the Playboy in my desk, it's because Milton puts it there. That's Fred Milton, by the way. He thinks it's a riot because he knows it bothers me. Every week, he brings a new one, and I never know where it will be. This one time he put it in my presentation case and it fell out in the middle of City Hall-
Psych: I see. And…how did you handle this?
Connolly: Well, I was pretty upset. Okay, I was pissed off. I-I might've cried. I just felt…I felt dirty, you know? Like, it's bad enough having to see it but now I had all these people thinking you know, that it was, well, mine.
Psych: And what did you do to resolve this situation? Have you confronted this…Mr. Milton about the problem?
Connolly: [Pause] Um, sorta. I was real upset, and Mr. Lawless…he said he'd take care of it.
Psych: I see. You rely on him a lot, don't you?
Connolly: Yeah. Yeah I do. Mr. Lawless…he's a really great guy. He's a good da-er, Detective.
Psych: And what did he do to 'take care of it'? Did you have a counseling session, a talk with your sexual harassment committee-?
Connolly: [Nervous Laughter] Um, no. Mr. Lawless said we, well, said I had to learn to handle things like a man. So we, um, he suggested and I kinda let him…
Psych: You let him-?
Connolly: I don't know if I should tell you. I don't wanna get him in trouble.
Psych: I assure you the results of these sessions are strictly confidential.
Connolly: [Sarcasm] Right. Sure. They're never computerized so no one in the IAB admin could ever read them.
Psych: Was what your partner did illegal in nature?
Connolly: Well, strictly speaking? Um, no. No there's no specific statute against posting someone's name and number with the phrase 'call for a good time' on the single's bulletin of one of Gotham's most prominent gay bars. At least, not to my knowledge.
Psych: Well, that was certainly…mature of you. And how exactly did you hope to ameliorate this problem by angering and humiliating Mr. Milton?
Connolly: That's what I asked. But my da-um, but Mr. Lawless said sometimes you have to learn to fight fire with fire. You know, meet people where they are and send a message, their style. He still leaves stuff in my desk, yeah, but he's never put it anywhere in my bags or someplace people'll find it since then. So I guess it worked. At least sorta. Cool, right?
Psych: [Sigh] Well, regardless of my preferences on the matter, yes. It would appear that you have successfully delivered a message to Mr. Milton. And again, regardless of my personal preferences I must admit a little…oh, shall we say 'male-bonding' can indeed be a healthy thing within the workforce. But what I'm more interested in now is the issue of pornography itself. You said, if I recall correctly, that it 'bothers you'. What exactly do you mean by that?
Connolly: [Pause] I mean someone leaves porn in my desk and it bothers me. That's what I mean.
Psych: I see. And what do you mean by…bothers? Are you annoyed, angry, do you feel guilty about sexual impulses?
Connolly: I mean guys are supposed to protect women. That's what they do. Protect them. Respect them. Look out for them. Call me old fashioned, bigoted, narrow minded, fundamentalist or whatever, but I don't see how objectifying women to nothing more than photo-shopped masturbatory aids does either.
Psych: I see. And do you feel guilty when you masturbate?
Connolly: Seriously-? Did you seriously ask me that question? Um, ew? Did I not say there were issues I could talk to my Dad about? Right from the very beginning? And just for clarification, there's only one thing that can make you even more of a loser than not having a wife or girlfriend, and that's 'pretending' that you do. So no. I don't feel guilty about something I don't do. You wonder why we hate coming to these stupid sessions so much? It's because you make them about as enjoyable as sitting an annual PAP smear.
Psych: [laughter] That's an interesting turn of phrase, Jimmy. Men don't typically get an annual PAP smear.
Connolly: And neither do women. At least not twice in a two month time slot from two separate gynecologists. Unless of course, they want a second opinion or they're conspiring with their doctor to cover something they still wanted insurance to pay for, say the termination of an unwanted pregnancy with their supervisor's baby?
Psych: What-? How did-? I…I…I do not appreciate false accusations!
Connolly: Let me guess, it was all 'strictly confidential'. Sure, your appointment book, excused leave of absence for medical issues and the billing statement to the department might claim one thing, but Sandra Stanley's inventory was somehow short 1 dosage of MTX following the day of your visit. And that's a bit suspicious, but so is driving half-way across town to a doctor you've never visited before for a routine annual screening when Dr. Matthew's results had already come in, especially when it's with an old med school buddy. But once it's in the system, it's open for interpretation by anyone who wants to read. You don't appreciate false accusations or confidences? Neither do I.
Psych: [Silence]
Connolly: You're here to rat on us. Report us. Rate us on a subjective system of flawed values and assumptions. So pardon me for not trusting someone who gets paid upwards of forty-five dollars an hour to come to preconceived conclusions about my life. At least when my Dad asks me about stuff like this, I know it's because he cares.
Psych: Detective Lawless really did teach you to fight fire with fire, didn't he.
Connolly: No. Not really. He taught me about interrogation technique. Fighting fire with fire would be telling you what I think of a woman who would trade sexual favors for a raise, and a mother who would kill her baby just to keep her job.
Psych: How dare you. How dare you! You men don't understand anything about what goes on in the workforce, what we women have to do to survive! Roe vs. Wade was upheld for that reason and you have no right to bring that up here-!
Connolly: No, and as much as I'd like to I don't have the right to arrest you for murder in the first degree, either. But by recommendation of the Internal Affairs Fraud Committee, I am placing you under arrest for conspiracy and falsification of medical documents. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney-
Note: Dr. Meridian has been temporarily relieved of her duties waiting a trial for falsification of medical records, false reporting, and fraud. Dr. Sandra Stanley, OB/GYN is now up for peer review with the state board of health for falsification of medical records, theft of controlled substances and insurance fraud. Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, the supervisor in question over the alleged paternity, could not be reached for questioning.
Yearly Peer Review:
Concerning my new partner Jimmy Connolly I must make several things clear. I was remiss in my first impressions and evaluations of his character, personality, and ability to perform his duties as a law enforcement officer during his probationary period. I had been aware since the beginning of our partnership that he possessed keen deductive skills, but expressed doubts over his ability to relate with others in a professional sense, retain the integrity of our investigations, and to cope with the emotional strain of the inherently violent and tragic nature of working in Homicide.
However, since this time Detective Connolly has shown both a remarkable willingness to learn and remarkable resilience of character to where I feel not only comfortable but confident with his abilities to handle the stress of this position and perform successful interrogations even with the most difficult or malignant personalities. He is receptive to mentoring, diligent in his duties, takes initiative on joint operations and frequently uses free time to volunteer and serve in the community. He is respectful to women, respectful to the dead, respectful to the families and friends of victims who must be labeled suspect even during a time of great grief. Despite his youth, he has consistently striven to meet the expectations of his position with the maturity of a man.
In sum, he's a damn good Kid. -Detective Aaron Lawless
Note: as of August 23rd, Detective Connolly has been declared MIA, presumed dead until convincing evidences can be provided to the contrary.
Additional Note: Detective Connolly was declared legally dead on August 30th by Gotham County Coroner Nora Fields under Death in Absentia. Fatally copious amounts of blood were discovered at the scene of the Detective's assault by Arkham escapee The Joker. While PCR analysis and other genetic tests were inconclusive due to evidence tampering, a video recording published on YouTube (for more information on Arewehavingfunyet and FBI internet restrictions, see GCPD protocol PANDEMONIUM) was submitted for forensic review.
Final Note: Detective Aaron Lawless has requested notification of Detective Connolly's remains once identified, and has petitioned courts for rights to the body. As of this writing, no next of kin could be located to contradict this request.
Friday August 23rd 2030
18:05 EST
Gordon Household
Tuna helper.
"Bleargh. What is that? Dogsick?" James Jr. frowned, wrinkling his nose.
"Just set the table." Barb whispered, feeling the prick of tears in her eyes.
It wasn't much but it was food. Kids were kids and kids complained and it shouldn't bother her. They were ignorant. Naïve. And honest to God she preferred it that way. They didn't understand how or why the food had gotten so scarce and so crummy since the Legacy had fallen. James Jr. was getting there. Watching the news with a frown, old enough to know something was wrong, very, very desperately wrong but lacked the capacity to know what. Didn't know how utterly changed the face of the globe would be.
No, Jimmy and BB just knew Daddy was gone. Always gone. That people were crying on TV. People on the streets were angry. And mommy's cooking had gotten horrible, tonight being the piece de resistance of the downward debacle. So she'd left it in the oven too long and it had gotten dried out and crusty on top waiting and keeping it warm for Jim. She placed her face in her mitted hands and stirred more 2%milk into the increasingly unappetizing concoction that James Jr. insisted looked like 'barf.'
After years of marriage, through sickness, health, better and worse, Barbara Gordon knew her husband well. Jim's career was tough. Tougher than she could ever imagine. When he had worked SVU there were nights they never spoke at all, weeks dragging into months where they had hardly touched, where sex and intimacy were out of the question. Many wives knew how to read a husband's expression, prepared themselves as he walked in the door…
Barbara Gordon could read a knock. The speed. The volume. Quick and loud meant Jim was awake, alert, happy to be home. A quick knock meant he wanted her to open the door, greet her and kids with a kiss and hug, say how much he loved them…
The sound of keys meant he thought she was sleeping. Didn't want to wake her. But she sat up nights anyways. Couldn't sleep, couldn't rest, tucked the kids in bed and waited on the couch, fretting and worrying lest she get that visit from anonymous officers saying he'd been shot, wounded, killed…that knock had come last year, and it had been unbearable.
But tonight's knock was slow and soft, faint and weary as it had been the night Surillo, Loeb, and Dawes were killed and her heart stopped cold in the dining room, along with her children's conversation.
"Mom?" James Jr. asked worriedly. "Mom-!"
Tonight's knock meant Jim didn't have the strength to lift the keys to the lock. Tonight meant Jim was heart broken…and she would be as well. More grief. More pain. More suffering. When would it end. When would their family stop hurting. When could they finally heal-?
"Stay here." Barb ordered, slipping the oven mitts onto the table next to the forgotten casserole. "Just stay in here."
The walk to the door took forever. Who was it this time, she wondered fleetingly. Someone she knew. Someone she'd invited into her home, introduced her children to, gotten attached to against her will and better judgment, opened her heart and family up only to more grief and pain-
She opened the door. Jim said nothing. After twenty-five years, he didn't have to.
"He's back." Barb whispered numbly. "The Joker. He's back."
12 hours previously…
06: 38 EST
Ramirez Residence
"Ramon, Jamie, vamanos!" Anna Ramirez called again into her twin sons' bedroom. "Quieren que están tardes?"
"No, mama!" The seven year olds cried, "We're coming!"
"Pronto!" The Detective warned sternly, balancing her youngest on her hip. Little Miguel was still sound asleep even after she'd dressed him, chubby cheek laid against her breasts. In the kitchen Anna poured the boy's Life cereal as the morning news began to run.
"This is Chris Holden of Good Morning Gotham," the announcer began wearily. "In the midst of all the chaos, I regret to inform viewers of the kidnapping of a surgical team from the grounds of Gotham United Methodist. Dr. Marcos Chavez, an abdominal surgeon, Dr. Sajja Luang, a retired trauma surgeon, Wanza Kalulu, Michelle Harding, and Katrina Gomez, all surgical nurses, were reported missing yesterday after failure to report to work. Police Commission James Gordon released this video footage from hospital security confirming the that known members of a local Anarchist movement may have masterminded this unprecedented attack-"
Ramirez blanched, juggling poor little Miguel to fumble for the remote. She turned the television off. Got that chaos and mayhem and fear out of her house. Her mind. But still her morning held no peace: the twins were fighting again, Miguel began to hiccough hungrily, and above their clamor she began scanning her voicemail for messages. The Nursing Home had called again, a mild case of pneumonia, yet another thing to wonder and worry about like the stack of backpacks and school supplies piled haphazardly by the door. When was her mother going to be well enough to come home? When would the schools open up again? And how en el nombre de dios was she supposed to raise tres hijos on her own-?
It would be alright, todo está bien, she sighed, leaning against the cabinets for support and privacy-it did no good to let the boys see her cry. This would all get cleared up, she shook her head against the choking sob in her throat. This too would pass. They'd survive. And whenever Jimmy was feeling up to it he'd be able to help her with the kids again…
Lawless Residence
"We can only speculate on what the kidnapper's plans might be." Mike Engle's voice rang from the television. "I don't care what criminal psychologists say. You can't predict these kind of men, Chris. They're evil. Pure evil. And to understand that you've got to be evil yourself."
"And you would know that better than anyone, Mr. Engle." Christopher Holden returned somberly. "Do you have any words for the family members of these missing people?"
"Yeah, yeah I do, Chris." Engle said. "The Batman's out there still, folks. And he'll do the right thing. He'll bring these people to justice, and you can count on that."
"Good for you, Engle." Aaron Lawless grunted. "Takes balls to say that on TV. Especially now." But TV 18 had always been a staunch supporter of the vigilante, one of the many reasons it was the primary news station in the Lawless household. "Jesus!" Aaron yelped, recognizing the faces of the victims for the first time. "That's Chavez! Mark Chavez!"
"I still can't believe it." Amy whispered numbly as the names and faces of the kidnapped appeared again. Michelle. Katrina. Wanza...and Mark. Mark-! Shock, terror and shame rippled through her body. The taste and feel of Mark's olive skin, that wide, wild Latino grin-she shuddered, and cuddled closer to her husband, safety and comfort underwritten by dark currents of guilt. Her husband's arms...and yet there was a tiny, undeniable part deep down inside like a wicked, sinful ember that wished those arms belonged to someone else.
"Jesus, Ames." Her husband breathed. "You know all those people-"
"If I hadn't left to get Ian-" She began, but he shushed her with a kiss.
"You're safe now." He promised tenderly. "I've got you." The Detective held her, muting the TV to shelter her from farther fear and harm.
But the harm was already done. Their fear was real. And as the Detective drew her close he had no reason to suspect that her heart-like his-was even now preoccupied with the safety of another.
06:56 EST
FBI Headquarters, Gotham City Branch
"Sir, we're forty minutes out. You want us to double-time it?"
"No." Murray sighed. "Go slow. Routine. I don't want anyone alerted to suspicions, you hear? No lights, no sirens, just a standard, routine sweep. That's what you tell any Arkham staff and any civilians. Not a word of this leaks."
"Roger that. We'll keep you posted." Then the radio fell suddenly silent. As the car neared the Asylum Murray began to pace, repeatedly wiping sweat from his thinning hair line and praying to God that he'd been wrong. But that face, there could be no mistaking that face…
The Director walked back to his cluttered desk, bringing up his fishing trip with McClain on the digital photo frame buried beneath those forgotten yearly employee reviews. Kanai River, Alaska, two years ago and about the most damned fun any friends could ask for. Underneath their big city exteriors both the FBI and AFT directors harbored a secret soft spot for fishing that none of their co-workers, friends, or spouses could understand. And there he was, Jack McClain, holding up a sleek, wicked salmon and grinning from ear to ear. They'd had a trip to Anchorage planned for this September since last Christmas…
Jesus. How the hell was he supposed to tell Jack that his favorite pupil had just been murdered?
We pick up this Kid, haul him into the van and he's squirming and fighting-remind you of anything? Jack grunted as he hauled against the twenty-pound trout. But he's tiny, you know? Figured he was about thirteen, maybe a look out for a local dealer. Anyways, we drive, and I pull the bag off his head and first thing he yells is 'I won't sell drugs. Not for you, not for anybody!' And he keeps hollering that until we get him calmed down, and we knew we'd picked up the right one. Most of these Narrows kids will do anything for money. Got a friend in Vice who just charged an eleven year old with prostitution…mostly we get these kids, try to use 'em, but they're hard to keep track of, and we've had problems with them giving tip offs for product to sell out on the street. No, this Kid was different. Practically a godsend. You wouldn't believe the amount of idiots we busted with this one. Liquor licenses, tobacco licenses, hell, one time we ended up busting a Narc Op on accident, that was a Hell of a mess-
Murray sighed and placed the glowing photo frame back in his desk. It's the good that die young, he reflected, while the old veterans got stiffer and saltier and everyday looked a little more forward to retirement. Before his majority, Jimmy Connolly had helped AFT with underage tobacco and liquor sales and getting licenses revoked. Hell of a mess during that trial, Jack thought their cover might have been blown for good but the Kid pulled through. Santy would've walked, too. Gotten away with it and the Kid still refused to tell the court where upwards of $1,500 in cash hidden in his apartment had come from…
If they'd known, they'd have gotten him a bank account. Trust fund. Runaway foster kids didn't have documentation, but they could have gotten around it somehow. Jack had no idea the Kid had wanted to go to college. Most just wanted the money to live off of…and hell, if they'd known he wanted schooling they've paid for it themselves. Connolly was a good Kid. Damn good Kid, even then at 17.
Jack would take it hard. Maybe too hard, Murray pondered. The Coroner's office said Santy had been shot twice in the liver. Long, nasty, fucking painful way to die. Cold case now, no new leads in nearly six years. No good cop looked too hard for the killer of a child molester, Jack had stated cryptically. Not when the kid in question was one of their own…
Director Dan Murray was no fool when it came to ethics and slippery slopes. Knew the danger of trusting a power outside the accountability of the law, Hell, any modern historian had only to point to the Batman. But Murray also knew the cost of failing, the number of lives of good men, good friends that had been lost to this city in order to bring the Joker in. And even then, without the Batman's help, it would have never been possible.
…if only these anonymous vigilantes would see fit to return, Murray reflected. Here in Gotham's eleventh hour, he couldn't afford to be exclusive about her heroes.
07:01 EST
Wayne Penthouse
Even exhausted and weak, Alfred Pennyworth was still a soldier. Years in SS had instilled in him the unusual qualities of deep sleep and instant wakefulness. Even now, nearly in his seventies, the Butler had the phone off the hook by the second ring and his voice held no trace of weariness.
"Wayne residence." Alfred answered crisply.
"Wake Mr. Wayne." Came the unmistakable tones of WE CEO Lucius Fox. "The FBI has something he needs to see…"
07: 15 EST
Arkham Asylum
Sometimes life could be a bitch, AIC Heusinger decided. "Ma'am, the prisoner is in federal custody-"
"And the so-called prisoner who you are referring to was deemed unable to stand trial due to psychological incompetency." The blonde doctor snapped. "I don't care who you are or what badges you wave in my face in a pathetic attempt at intimidation, my patient has rights."
"And the public has rights, too, lady. Get out of the fucking way-"
"If you wish to supersede my patient's autonomy there are official government channels and communications available for said request." Quinzel continued coldly, standing her ground before gathered throng of FBI agents on the PANDEMONIUM taskforce. "But until you have cleared the proper authorities, and have contacted the appointed attorney you are in direct violation of my patient's basic human rights, physician's orders and if you continue your disregard I will have you escorted immediately from the premises."
"The fuck with this-" An unfortunate and impatient agent reached forward to grab the doctor's slender wrist, only to be met with a judo move that sent him slamming to the tile, the offending arm twisted painfully behind his back. Seven FBI agents drew their weapons, shouting FREEZE! as the psychiatrist stood her ground over her fallen prey, the spiked heel of one purple stiletto piercing flesh and tearing muscle in the screaming man's lumbar region. And though the moment only lasted a second, the wickedest, most lusty of sneers twitched itself across her immaculate features.
…In that moment, Dr. Harleen Quinzel was anything but beautiful.
"That's assault of a federal officer, bitch." Heusinger growled, taking her into custody roughly, eying her lithe frame up and down. "Pretty little thing like you in handcuffs? Sweetheart, you just made my day."
"Documentable self-defense." The blonde sniffed, cold eyes glancing pointedly towards the security cameras. "And an excuse to take you insufferable pricks to court on a sexual harassment suit…" She smiled. "No, Officer, you just made mine."
07: 23 EST
Wayne Penthouse
Dear Mr. Alfred, I got my GED yesterday so now I can go to college. I'm going to study to be a police officer like my mom. I think now she can be proud of me. I lied to you. On the bridge. I think you knew that. I think you lied to me, too. But thank you. I got really cold but that was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me–JC
As the head of the Wayne Legacy Foundation Scholarship Committee, Alfred Pennyworth had read many such letters expressing gratitude from graduates and scholarship recipients over the last ten years. Letters and pictures were framed, hung for display, trophies along the walls of the Legacy building that silently shouted for all to hear that a difference was being made here in Gotham City…
Too much of a difference. In warfare, one targeted strategic assets, bridges, roadways, shipping and supply routes. The Legacy was no exception. What she represented in the hearts of Gotham's people was hope. Prosperity. Unity. And now she was gone. Thomas Wayne's Legacy wasn't a building, not some physical construct of glass and steel spiraling into Gotham's skyline but an idea, a hope carried in the hearts of those who believed a in greater good, a better world-
A hope that died with so many children, teachers, public servants, parents and graduates who had come out to show their support. The Wayne family's longest standing servant cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles and read that letter again. Of all the notes sent by those touched by Thomas' compassion, this was the only that remained. The only, in ten years, that had been addressed not to the Legacy Foundation but specifically to him.
January. The anniversary of Bruce's disappearance. He'd gone as usual to the Legacy, coming in early, leaving late, busy, busy, constantly busy lest he become idle and waste with grief. Young Master Wayne was still alive, he reminded himself daily, and it was his duty to find him, to bring him home. He owed Thomas and Martha all the strength and fortitude it would take to find the son that they had been robbed of, the son, Alfred Pennyworth reflected, that he had known and raised longer than they had…
The day was grey. Overcast. Evening had fallen swiftly. Wearily he maneuvered the xxx through the heavy traffic and slushy streets, inching slowly towards the narrows toll bridge-the very route that Rachel had taken. He made this trip, once a year, a pilgrimage from City Hall to that abandoned alleyway in the Narrows, the last place Bruce had been sighted. It was time for pause. Reflection. A time to mull over leads from the last year, question what he could have done differently, a time to wonder what it was that kept Bruce from coming home…
But then again, hadn't he said it himself? It was his parents' house. And that empty manor, like a mausoleum, had never been his home…
The light turned green, and Alfred shifted the car into a lower gear as it began the icy summit, engine whining in protest and wheels spinning through chunks and tracks of dirty, polluted snow and salty sludge. He'd have to have the automotive mechanic over to the garage. Add another protective coat to the paint and undercarriage. He reached the summit of the curved bridge, looked out at the hopeless expanse of grey sky, dark, treacherously cold undulating waters, the bleak, barren skyline of Gotham's Narrows in the distance. He felt suddenly old. Worn. Weak. The overcast sky hid the setting sun, hid the stars above, dampened light like it dampened his spirits…
And there. Suddenly he was braking, tires spinning tractionless to the tune of a thousand angry horns the lamborgini spinning nearly out of control but his SS honed reflexes-like his subconscious observation and steady calm-held her fast. In a second it was over, and the sportscar was parked half on, half off the curb, and as he climbed stiffly through the passenger side door angry shouts and litter pelted down in a wrathful hail. But Alfred Pennyworth didn't care about the integrity of the automobile's paint job or his heavy woolen coat or leather shoes as he began a military jog up the abandoned, ice-littered sidewalk. For there, there at the very summit a lone pedestrian stood, tightly gripping the rail and contemplating the ice-cold waters below-
"I say, young man-" He called, spectacles fogging over in the cold.
The boy started. "I wasn't gonna jump!" Came his immediate and guarded protest. Hardly, Alfred thought, his trained eye regarding every detail of the boy's starving appearance, from his sickly shiver to the ratty holes in his gloves, frayed pants and soaking shoes. And now here they stood, an old man and a boy just coming into manhood, just feet from the other and yet worlds apart, one lacking nothing, the other, everything.
"Of course not." Alfred said kindly. "I would presume no such thing."
"What do you want?" The boy stated, dark eyes accusing. Accusing him of judgment, suspicion, of a life lived without need or want, poverty or hardship, for being dressed as to stand comfortably in the cold without dreading its harsh bite…
For seven years, he had searched, busied himself, commemorated Bruce's memory through charity and scholarships. Driven across this bridge to the dangers and squalor that lurked on the other side, but no longer. There was a time to search, and a time to give up as lost, a time to realize that Bruce was a man now, not a lost child and would come home when he chose to, no sooner, no later. If he had failed as a guardian or a parent it was long ago, long ago when Bruce was still an impressionable child not an embittered, vengeful young man with a vendetta to pay. But standing here so close to where young master Wayne had disappeared from, Alfred Pennyworth determined not to fail so again.
"My vehicle, it appears, has run out of oil. Quite careless of me, but I had hoped to reach a fueling station before it became an emergency-" Which was a lie, of course. No one with his mannerisms, dress or class of car would ever contemplate crossing to the Narrows for automobile repair, however minor. "And now it would seem I am forced to walk. But with the weather, and my heart…" The Butler continued worriedly, wool coat concealing a trim, fit military figure. "I'm afraid to carry something so heavy in this cold. You wouldn't by any chance be willing to assist an elderly gentleman in need?"
The boy sniffed. Wiped his running nose on the faded fabric of an overlarge hooded sweatshirt, his only protection from the whipping winds, dark eyes squinting and unsure. But begrudgingly he came. Walked with him two miles in the cold to the station to carry 3 quarts of Penzoil back up that hill, slipping and shivering in the ice and wet, steadying an old man in need towards the blinking flashers so far above. By the time they reached the car it had become utterly dark, the bridge lit by the sickly beams of passing cars, muted by a wet and drifting snow.
Alfred popped the hood from the cab, and instructed the boy how to properly add the oil. He did it, too, shaking so bad he could barely hold it still and slopping oil all over the engine, that sweatshirt and his salt-encrusted shoes. "Is it gonna start?"He asked worriedly, face and hands now grubby and stained.
"I'm positive it should." The Butler replied kindly, storing the extra oil in the boot. "And I am eternally grateful for your services. I beg your pardon, but I never introduced myself. I'm Alfred Pennyworth." He extended one gloved hand. The boy took it hesitantly, dark eyes guarded, exposed fingers frigid and clumsy, sticky with oil. "Jimmy." He said, teeth chattering. "Jimmy Connolly."
Jimmy. Jimmy Connolly. That same voice rang from the laptop's speakers. Alfred Pennyworth turned the video off. Didn't need to watch it to fruition to know that massacre in Burma, after forty-some years, had again come back to haunt him. Bloodshed, said the Lord God, will never cease from your house…
07:38 EST
Arkham Asylum
The FBI agents flew down the hall of Arkham Asylum, panic beginning to well in their throats. The Joker's cell had been empty. But that blonde bitch had only laughed and said they'd find him here-
"Jesus Christ!" Heusinger cried.
"Please tell me that's the fucking Joker," one of his men whispered. But it'd be too much to hope, right? That sicko was a sociopath, no way he'd take his life. Not like this. And if that angry mob had gotten to him…well, there was a reason Hitler didn't have a goddamn tombstone.
The body was strung up, tied to the ceiling by the neck, dangling pathetically in the center of the empty room. Heusinger mopped his forehead, dreading what was to come next. As he crossed the threshold, the FBI agent gagged on the lingering scent of death, stale urine and feces. Gingerly he tread to the hanging corpse.
Frank Boles. Arkham Security.
…Not the Joker. What a fucking surprise.
But damn, Heusinger thought surveying the body with pity as he radioed Murray, if he couldn't blame the poor bastard…
07: 41 EST
Wayne Penthouse
"Alfred, what's up?" Bruce asked, weariness replaced by sudden alarm. The SS veteran looked up from that missive, seeming for the first time to feel the weight of his years.
"Something on the cameras, sir." Alfred Pennyworth stated. "Something you need to see."
"This is our, uh, newest patient." Rachel's killer said. "Wake up wake up c'mon c'mon, smile for the birdie…the Battie…"
Rage. Eating inside him like Tuesday night, those flames of gasoline the night the Joker killed Rachel licking at his flesh yet again. "When was this posted?" The Batman growled.
"It fell into the hands of the FBI last night." Alfred read emotionlessly from Lucius' notes. "But was posted in the public domain at midnight, August 22nd."
"Why didn't they know? Take action sooner!" The vigilante continued. "Surely they knew, had to know he'd escaped...he wasn't there. He was gone. How could they not know-!"
"With all due respect, sir," The elderly man said, rising stiffly. "Perhaps you weren't there to tell them."
07:53 EST
FBI Headquarters, Gotham City Branch
Heusinger's voice had lost all it's cockiness. The AIC's somber, crisp tones steeled them instantly for the worse: "Sir, this thing is fucking real."
Edward 'Eddie' Nashton bowed his head as the Director sat heavily. "I feared as much," Murray whispered, taking a moment of silence as Heusinger asked for orders. What orders, Eddie wondered. Did you really need someone to tell you that your only job now was finding the fucking Joker-?
"Come back to base." Murray said wearily. "Get copies of all their security footage and come back to base. Not a word of this leaks." Then the Director picked up the red phone and dialed direct to HQ in Washington. "This is Murray, Gotham City Branch." The Director demanded. "Get POTUS on the line."
POTUS-? But didn't that mean-? Calderon? What would the President care if the Joker'd escaped? "What the Hell are you doing, Danny?" Eddie asked uncertainly.
Murray sighed, looking out the sheet-glass windows to the blazing sunrise spreading on the eastern horizon and towards the White House even farther away. "Trying to hold back the storm."
08: 00 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
GCPD Dual Headquarters
Commissioner James Gordon was a busy man. Being Commissioner was like being a king, and while not directly responsible for any one branch of GCPD law enforcement the Commissioner functioned as a dignitary, appointing lesser officials, amassing reports, and keeping the public educated and informed.
But the Legacy Bombing (for lack of better word) was something the United States hadn't dealt with since the likes of 9/11. And although there were contingency plans there was no way to strategically plan for every potential scenario, and no way to prepare the human heart and psyche for the terrors that ensured. So now, just like last year, Gordon was burdened under stress and exhaustion both physically and mentally, emotionally drained by the loss of so many loved ones, comrades, fellow soldiers and friends. Gotham City Public Services would never be the same.
…But mostly, just like last year-just like Monday-Jim Gordon found himself struggling on the slope of hope and despair, truth, justice, public safety and the greater good to find the world was never split into blackness and white, and that to service, protection and dishonesty had never been mutually exclusive constructs. In order to stop anarchy and urban war on this knife-edge of crisis and panic, the people had to feel safe, protected, had to feel as though the men protecting were capable and active...
And in order to make the people feel safe in this infinite crisis, they wanted him to lie. National Guard wanted him to go before the press and say he had a lead, that the GCPD were following a lead and would bring these yet unknown terrorists to justice, that the presence of National Guardsmen here was for their safety and protection and proved that their city was safe…
But if their city were safe, if the domestic powers that guarded it were secure, the military wouldn't be here. And any idiot with half a brain could see through it. So Calderon was censoring the media, newspapers, news stations, radio, television…and now wanted his aid bringing these 'hate-mongerers' and to justice. Had the audacity to claim they posed a danger and a threat to the rest of society…
Perhaps they did, Jim Gordon reflected. Perhaps they didn't. Perhaps they were simply good men who believed that true freedom and falsehood could never co-exist…and perhaps in his heart of hearts, Commissioner Gordon wished he still were one of them.
08: 03 EST
Wayne Penthouse
"I want everything you've got, Lucius." Bruce told him, pacing the Venetian tile. "Everything."
"I hacked Arkham's security systems last year like you requested." Fox's mild tones came through the encrypted phone. "And we installed our own private monitoring system around the Joker's cell. But unfortunately, Mr. Wayne, there was a malfunction in the power system-"
"And both systems were temporarily off-line." Bruce finished in an emotionless monotone.
"Yes, sir. Both systems rebooted shortly after the glitch on backup generators. "
"How blind are we." Bruce whispered. It was a statement, not a question.
"We're missing nearly a minute of film." Fox steeled himself. "But only the mounts directly on the building system were linked to emergency power. We're missing the outer perimeter. Square footage-wise, 65% of the campus went unaccounted for."
"Send it to me." The Batman growled. "I'll analyze it. All of it. I want to know who's responsible for this."
"Mr. Wayne, with all due respect, perhaps this is a job for the police." There were over 300 cameras on the Arkham campus, and over the 48 hours in question it was tens of thousands of individual hours of footage, each individual angle like a blind man configuring a jigsaw…"You don't have to do everything yourself, and this time you can't, sir-"
"Damn it, Fox, this time I have to!" The vigilante swore. "I can't trust the police, do you understand? Until I know, until we know who's responsible for the break and who covered it up I can't trust anyone-!"
08: 46 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
GCPD Dual Headquarters
Gordon sat behind his desk in disbelief, staring to the portraits of all the other men, some great, some not, who had once shared in this honored position. Looking to their stoic faces the Commissioner found himself wondering could any one of them have possibly foreseen this day…or was the human imagination, like human history, limited solely to the depravity of the times. "Yes, Governor." He finally sighed. "I understand your concern-"
"Sometimes I wonder if you do." Miller's voice was cool, but sad. "It's about saving lives, Jim. Doing whatever we have to to prevent more violence on our streets-"
Stop the Violence. Odd, wasn't it, that only five days ago those words meant equal access to education and job training. "You're asking me to authorize pre-emptive strikes against American citizens through an illegal interim measure-" It was the goddamned Patriot Act all over again, only this time brutal, enforced, and focused. It was power in its most corrupted form, power that should never have been granted the federal government, let alone a local police taskforce…
"No, Jim. You don't understand." Governor Stephanie Miller said wearily. "I'm not asking you. I'm ordering you. I declared Gotham City a crisis zone under jurisdiction of the US National Guard three days ago. Refusal to comply is defiance to a direct order, Jim. The only thing I'm asking you is not to do anything stupid. Gotham needs you. I need you. The people need you. Don't sacrifice our citizens for your goddamned ideas-"
But which exactly of his idealistic expectations she found so damning Jim Gordon would never know. At that moment the door to his office flew suddenly open and in the shock of the moment the cell phone slipped from his hand in agonizing slow motion towards the dirty tile below. The battery case exploded across the floor as the Stacy, the floor's secretary, let out an apologetic whimper. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gordon, I told them you were busy-"
But the Commissioner only stood wordlessly, body breaking into a cold and cheerless sweat. There were few people who had direct access to this building or office. Fewer still who would dare to trespass its autonomy…and not a one of those select elite could have anything less than catastrophic to say.
FBI Director Dan Murray was one of them.
11: 00 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
GCPD Dual Headquarters
Emergency PANDEMONIUM joint taskforce hearing
"…with regret to inform you that as of 0800 hours, the Joker has been declared missing from Arkham Asylum."
Outrage. Chaos. Disbelief and cries of dismay. FBI Director Dan Murray watched as a room of Gotham's finest exploded into sobs and shouts of betrayal. And if the news came hard to Gotham's trained public servants, he could only imagine the panic and chaos that would ensue were the announcement to go public.
…but with the eyes of a nation turned to this Madman instead of whatever current nation-state made a convenient culprit, perhaps they could stay the rising tide of prejudice and violence that threatened to tear the globe asunder. Chinese industry had taken a dive on Wall Street and now even while survivors were still being pulled from the wreckage and ashes people were already clamoring in DC and picketing for blood. God help them all if Pontius Pilot were in the White House, Murray reflected. China was on the UN security council, for God's sakes. Possessed goddamned tactical nuclear weapons that could level every city in the US in under 9 minutes…
…for which the only consolation remained that in Gotham's present state, not even the PRC would bother wasting the uranium.
"And why the fuck are we just now hearing about it-!" A strong, authoritative voice carried above all others. Gwen Paltron, Murray decided even before his eyes found her figure. The woman was unforgettable.
"Because my office was only recently informed, Detective." He addressed her wearily, motioning the room for silence. "As of 2400 hours August 201st, a complaint was lodged against Youtube username Arewehavingfunyet for excessively violent images. Internet Taskforce declared the video a fake, but routed the video to us for analysis. Again, due to the video's quality of resolution Mr. Nashton could not rule out the authenticity of the video until the Joker's whereabouts were verified. And at 0800 hours this morning, it was discovered the patient was not present on the campus premises."
Sighs. Tears. Blank stares and harrowed faces. "The National Guard as been tasked with the preservation of civil and military order at this time." The Police Commissioner added, his mild voice, though strained with grief, served to still the tumultuous murmurs echoing through the hall. All eyes, all ears, and all hearts were now fully focused towards the platform. "Mr. Murray and I now believe it is the sole responsibility of our organizations to take care of this threat."
Again the FBI Director spoke. "Containment protocol-"
"Containment protocol?" Paltron raged again. "You can't contain the fucking Joker, Danny!"
"It's dishonest not to inform the media." Came the gruff growl of Detective Lawless. "You have any idea how fucking dangerous that might be? If people find out through third party sources and not from us? They'll never trust this government again-"
Gordon looked to Murray, and on the teleconference screen Governor Stephanie Miller sighed. "He's right." Gordon repeated. Of course they were right, Murray knew. It's what the Joker wanted, anticipated even: Don't go to the police, don't trust the police…they might put up a good fight-tuh, but in the end they're what you call uh, powerless. They couldn't afford to play into this bastard's hand.
"Gotham has the right to know." Detective Lawless growled again. "Goddamnit Dan, parents have the right to know-"
"I would ordinarily agree with you, Detective," the Governor extended from the monitor. "But given the circumstances-"
"What fucking circumstances?" Paltron's clear voice rang. "What else aren't you people telling us?"
The FBI director sighed. "The video content has already been leaked," Murray explained. "And given the timing of its posting we believe this threat goes far beyond the realm of Gotham City. While Homeland Security and the Military are implicating the Chinese, our organizations are in agreement that it is more than possible this man is responsible for Monday's events and if so, it is likely he had access to military arsenal-"
"Likely?" Paltron snorted. "Dead fucking certain, Danny! RPG's aren't standard issue for riot control-!"
"Is it possible we're giving this whack-job too much credit?" Another GCPD officer spoke up. He was pudgy and pale, looked more like a technician than a cop walking the beat. "He's a fucking genius, okay? And he's escaped custody before. Who's to say in the stress of the moment he's not simply done it again?" Milton, Fred Milton, Murray read the name badge from the stage. "The guy's a complete sociopath. He'd love for us to believe he had something to do with this-"
"Milton's right." Paltron voiced. "What was the content of the video? How do we know for certain this isn't simply circumstantial? Guarangoddamntee you the Joker had a contingency plan-"
"I affirm with Mr. Murray that this threat is legitimate." Gordon said, voice tremoring. He found he couldn't bring himself to look into her blazing blue eyes even across the conference room, couldn't bring himself to say it. "The specificity of the video content necessitates it could only have been filmed between 1700 hours and the time of its posting." He finished.
"But what the fuck is it?" Paltron pressed.
"Another graphic execution of a high profile target in civil service." Murray answered reluctantly in the Commissioner's sudden silence, his eyes now sweeping the room filled with FBI and GCPD personnel. Even Homicide. Montoya, Allen, Paltron and Lawless-Christ, what a shitty way to find out your partner's been killed…Hell, even Jack McClain from AFT was staring up at him with mingled curiosity and dread. "A Detective from GCPD Homicide."
In the back row of the assembly, Detective Aaron Lawless turned a sickly shade of pale.
11:21 EST
Wayne Enterprises
R and D Department
"And where do you work, Jimmy?" The Clown asked with feigned curiosity. "Or are you…uh, unemployed?"
"Police-" The boy made a gagging noise, the rest of his words drowned out. His chest rose higher in agonized gasps, shuddering then falling still.
"A police officer?" The Joker insisted, a wild light in that wicked grin. "A Gotham City police officer?"The boy nodded, face wrenched in pain. "Hmmm…a police officer." Rachel's killer sung. "That uh, that changes things."
"Mr. Wayne?" Fox approached the younger man cautiously. "Do you have everything you need?"
"Yes." The Batman rasped, and the CEO recognized that voice and that mask of rage. It wasn't his employer who was speaking, it was the vigilante, the masked hero, Gotham's Dark Knight. But it was Bruce Wayne who spoke next. "Go home. See Nichelle and Mikeala. Spend time with Darius."
"That I will, Mr. Wayne." The elderly gentleman said, that shift in personality, like the change of background on the numerous monitors, not escaping his scrutiny: Thomas II and Martha Wayne at the Legacy Foundation's annual leukemia luncheon. The last official press picture taken by Legacy photographers of the couple together alive, not 9 hours before their tragic demise. Mrs. Wayne was already wearing that string of pearls in anticipation of the night…it was all so strangely foreboding and yet fitting, Fox finally decided. In death, like life, she never once left his side.
11:30 EST
Rachel K. Dawes Municipal Building
GCPD Dual Headquarters
Emergency PANDEMONIUM joint taskforce hearing
As Co-chairman of the PANDEMONIUM taskforce and Police Commissioner of Gotham City, Jim Gordon had been briefed. Had even watched the video in its entirety in his office in growing dread, horror, and loss. But it could no more prepare him for its screening here in an impersonal board room on a projection screen like a goddamned movie theater, the Joker starring in his own horrific home video…
"Might want to write this down, Commissioner. Just in case."
…and it was, Gordon reflected numbly, everything that twisted madman could have ever hoped for. It was a message for Gotham, yes. For children and students and parents…but it was also a personal message, addressed just to him.
August. It was hot. Stuffy. Sweltering. His interviewee for the morning hadn't showed, thirty-nine city blocks were out of power after a 27 car pile up spilled off the freeway and into a power station and now old people were dying for lack of AC and the media claimed it was somehow his fault for not implementing harsher speeding penalties when anyone with any knowledge about civil issues would know that the state highway belonged to the jurisdiction of the State Police not the City even if the roadway happened to cross into the City Limits. But more so than any of these annoyances was the message on his phone from Nora. ME's office had what looked like another Zsasz killing and every hour the Killer was loose more lives were in danger and some small voice in the back of his head laughed like that sinister Clown saying what happened once could happen again…
And in the months since Dent's passing, the Batman had gone silent. Missing. Or dead. No news is good news, the Commissioner forced himself to think. He hasn't contacted you because nothing has changed. Stick with the plan. Hold course. He's still out there, keeping an eye on things.
At least he hoped, prayed, feared with all his soul. Part of being Commissioner was knowing all his limitations, weaknesses, and blindspots. How power ever managed to corrupt or inflate public officials Gordon would never understand. He had power, yes, but with it came the responsibility and worry and fear of the office and everything-regardless of contingency plans-that could still go wrong.
"Stacy, can you forward all calls to the cell? I'm going to head home early. Eat dinner with Barb and the kids."
The Secretary looked up from the flat screen Mac monitor and wireless keyboard-the new MCU's hardware had been enriched to state of the art technology largely by a WE donation-and what looked like an overflowing excel spreadsheet with what he resigned himself to was most likely his schedule for the upcoming week. "But Mr. Gordon-" The young girl protested, "He's been waiting to see you all day."
Gordon blinked. "Who?"
Stacy ruffled through the onscreen day-planner. "Jimmy Connolly."
"His appointment was at 9 am." Gordon recollected, remembering Allen's disappointment that the young man hadn't shown. Not like him, the Detective had insisted.
"The visitation log shows he got here at 8:30am." Stacy noted, blinking her large eyes. "And Mr. Gordon, he's really, really nice." The 23 year-old receptionist continued in an almost pleading tone that any father with a young daughter could recognize instantly as wheedling. Nice? Perhaps. But five years with BB had taught him that the correct English translation would be more along the lines of cute.
"Why wasn't he sent to my office?"
"Well, I was gonna have him sit out here with me," Stacy said with the slightest pink blush of embarrassment on her heart-shaped face, "but Fred and Eugene said they'd take him to the lounge-"
"Fred and Eugene?" Jim asked sharply. "Fred Milton?"
"Yeah!" She exclaimed. "From Homicide." His tired feet and exhausted brain let out a groan. It was just like those two, he thought, too tired to be amused or even angry. Just like Milton and Bradley to take a prospective candidate not to the visitor's lounge where his name would be called but hole him up somewhere in the interrogation block. If either of them put as much effort into their work as their mutual interest in practical jokes, they'd have made Sergeant already.
So against every instinct in his aching body, Gordon found himself asking for the young man's file. And Stacy beamed. Thank-and curse-God, Gordon thought tiredly as he perused its contents, for little girls…
Initial impressions were everything in the interview process. He did his best to put the anger and resentment of the day aside, to give his own attitude and tired mind a clear slate and not let the prejudices of the day's hardships affect the outcome. This was someone else's career at stake. Something Commissioner James Gordon took very, very seriously. Why he purposefully scheduled interviews for the beginning of the day-
Room 13. Gordon steeled himself, opened the door and-
-and a small, fuzzy dog and what appeared to be a disembodied hand greeted him from the desktop. He blinked in surprise. No. It was a mop of dark curls and an outstretched arm. Sprawled on the desk next to a tepid paper cup of department coffee. For nearly thirty seconds, Gordon just stared in shock. While he, Commissioner James Gordon, spent all day in a panicked frenzy with the weight of responsibility of a city on his shoulders, this Jimmy Connolly had spent the afternoon napping-napping!-in the interrogation grid.
Oh, the irony and unfairness of it all, Gordon thought, shaking away bitterness and exhaustion. He even managed a bemused chuckle before scraping back the metal folding chair. At the sound Connolly started from sleep, yawned slowly and stretched, then blinked once groggily before leaping to an almost comedic attention complete with a startled yelp of 'Mr. Gordon, sir-!'.
Two banged knees, a spilt coffee cup, a soggy mess of what had once been a prospective employee personnel file and an embarrassed apology later, Gordon found himself shaking hands with the young man and finally taking a seat. He tried to be objective. He'd already done his damned best not to laugh, and had impressed himself so far with keeping a straight and serious face. But there was something else. Something still wrong-
"Are you feeling nervous, Mr. Connolly?" Gordon asked the fidgeting candidate. Were it not for the clean drug test in his now coffee soaked personnel file the Commissioner would swear Connolly needed a fix.
"Nervous?" Connolly asked with alarm, fingers drumming on the table top and knees bouncing noticeably. "No, um, not really. It's just that, well, you know, all I've had to eat today's been 12 cups of coffee and I really, really have to pee." That young face was now split with what was either a groan or grin of sheepish embarrassment and apology.
The Commissioner smiled and nodded once to the door. When you were already eight hours late, what was the harm in postponing a few minutes more? "You came back." Gordon offered with mild humor when the grateful young man returned from the restroom. "I half expected you not to."
Connolly shrugged awkwardly, taking the opposite seat. "To be honest, Mr. Gordon, I more than half considered it. But I think Mr. Allen would've shot me."
Gordon chuckled. "Well, Mr. Connolly, I have to say I was most impressed by Crispus' recommendation."
"Really?" The boy sat up hopefully. "What'd he say?"
"Nothing he said." Gordon admitted. "It's the fact he wrote it. In 20 years of working for the Police Academy, Crispus Allen has written one letter to recommend a student and only one. And it just so happens to be in your file." The young man shrugged, but a slight pinkish flush of pride crept over his boyish cheeks.
"He offered to buy me a beer, but since I don't drink I asked him to write that instead."
Gordon nodded politely. "And how did you manage that?"
"I arrested him."
"Pardon?" Gordon asked with sudden alarm.
"Fake arrest, don't worry Mr. Gordon. It was at training games in Quantico, you know, top recruits from different academies. We had two weeks to solve this homicide they rigged up with sets and actors and everything, with lab results in real time, you know, a simulation. Anyways, the end of the week came and none of us had anything. Turns out the exercise was more about teaching us about stress and teamwork the hard way, and they really rigged it to be impossible to solve. So we go to debriefing and Mr. Allen singles me out-you know, to pick on-and I ask him if we're supposed to treat this exactly like a real crime scene. He starts going off on how if we'd done that from day one we might've caught our perp. So I arrest him." The boy grinned. "Because all week long he'd been asking us leading questions about the case that only a witness or the murderer could know, and that's obstruction of justice at the very least. So I mirandize him." Connolly laughed. "And the whole assembly just goes dead quiet."
"And what did Crispus do?"
"Well, it'd been a really bad week for everyone and I honestly thought he was going to punch my face in. Instead he looks at me and says 'Pint-size, in 20 years of teaching that's about the-well, in so many words-stupidest thing I've ever heard.' I thought I was going to be expelled or fired or whatever, and then he goes 'And unfortunately for the rest of you, he's absolutely right.' "
"An amusing story," Gordon nodded, straightening his glasses to peruse the coffee-stained file once more. It was all a ruse, of course, but a tradition, and a long held one at that. One simply didn't announce these things without creating some sort of suspense. He counted to sixty. Then with slow, calculated deliberation Gordon sighed, closed the folder, and folded his hands. Jimmy Connolly looked just about to explode with mingled curiosity and dread.
"Well, Mr. Connolly," The Commissioner began as the boy straightened expectantly in his chair, "it is now with my sincerest regret and deepest apologies that I must inform you that by recommendation of the Internal Affairs Personnel Committee, and on behalf of project WATCHDOG-"
Crushed. Disappointment washed through young man's dark eyes like thunderheads in an oncoming storm. And that absolute inability to lie, that open, energetic sincerity was what sold him more than anything else. He'd been questioning before but he was damn sure now. Welcome aboard, Mr. Connolly…
"-that you have of this moment officially assumed duty as an officer of the GCPD with the assignment of Homicide Detective." James Gordon finished with a broad smile, extending his hand. "Please tell me you can work overtime."
"I was nervous hiring him, you know? 167 positions open, and he applies for all of them. I couldn't not give him an interview..." And now Monday's words, like the Joker's a year ago, came back to haunt him: Does it depress you, commissioner? To know just how alone you really are? Does it make you feel responsible for Harvey Dent's current predicament?
Your People. Psychological warfare. It wasn't his fault. These men were heroes, heroes who had willingly placed themselves before the public, taken an oath to serve and protect, become soldiers and warriors…
Commissioner Loeb. Judge Surillo. Rachel Dawes…and Jimmy Connolly.
YES-! Right or wrong, the words were still true. They were his men. And when they were struck down it was his fault, and his alone. If only he hadn't hired him, listened to Dawes said he was too young, too inexperienced, too naïve, if only he had gotten an ambulance sooner, Detective Jimmy Connolly might still be alive…
Lawless. What must this mean for Lawless…And Paltron. He knew a gut-wrenching pang for Paltron like that terrifying moment James Jr. and the Batman had gone tumbling over the ledge…when Harvey Dent lay broken and dead in the ashes and soot and the Joker had won…when he accepted lies as truth for the greater good and blurred the line between right and wrong, good and evil failed as a father/husband/commissioner all for the sake of a foolish dream…
Watching his ex-partner reach a trembling hand to the screen, even Jim Gordon missed that there were two messages sent in the Joker's most recent broadcast. One of fear, one of hope.
"You're. Not. God." The young man died. In excruciating agony. But he died fighting until the very end. The Joker may have killed him…
…but the Joker didn't win.
11:43 EST
Wayne Enterprises
R and D Department
Angels of Mercy. Stop the Violence. It wasn't difficult to comprehend why the bastard chose the victim he did. Those two tragic events were scarred into Gotham's psyche so strongly that it was a part of her soul. The deaths of Thomas and Martha Wayne, those two Saints and strangers who meant so much to everyone but to him would always and only be parents, parents he barely had the chance to know except as a young boy, too naïve to know them as anything more than mother and father…
And Sisters of Mercy. Burning and taking 43 innocent children with it into ash. He hadn't been here when it happened, saw only the rage and grief and doubt on impersonal headlines and Chinese language programming and it only fueled his desire for revenge on the corrupt, and justice for the helpless…No, to him the real tragedy had continued to be his own. Wondering around Asia in the criminal underworld, deadset on a weregild of revenge and justice, in learning to know thine enemy before returning to avenge them by cleaning the streets, getting rid of the scum that walked the streets they once walked, laughed, lived, loved and bled upon. He'd been too busy with this dream of becoming, of being Batman to realize the stark truth set before him. His father's Legacy wasn't in the grand projects, the justice system, even the tram that still ran for free on cheap, clean energy for all of Gotham's citizens…
"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Wayne." Lucius' even tones woke him from a rather pleasant sleep in the boardroom. Bruce woke, yawning, wiping what appeared to be drool from the corner of his mouth and the table top, slightly chagrined to find the Trust committee had long since left.
"What's up?" The world's richest man asked groggily.
"A legal issue. Regarding the Legacy."
"Isn't that what the Legal department's for?" Bruce yawned.
"Quite, Mr. Wayne. Quite." Fox agreed, lips twitching into an amused smile.
"What's the issue?"
"Stop the Violence. The Ad campaign, at least." Lucius already had the photo up on the ipad, as if he needed remembering. With as much as that damned picture had been in the news even the most illiterate would recognize it. "We bought rights to the photograph in April, if you remember, from TV18 studios."
"Yeah, I remember. You asked me if we could spend $50,000 dollars on a simple picture for an advertising campaign"
"And you informed Mr. Pennyworth and I as Director of the Wayne Legacy Foundation and CEO of Wayne Enterprises we could spend as much money on 'photographs' for whatever reason we goddamned pleased," Fox said, keeping his face miraculously straight. "Provided we introduced you to the models."
Bruce laughed. "I did say that, didn't I?"
"I do so recall." Fox finally smiled. "The legal issue with the photograph is it's a still. As a motion picture it would be considered property of the Associated Press, but unfortunately for us and the News Agency this picture was captured, sold and published without a signed photo release by the subject."
"They sold us something they didn't have rights to." Bruce chimed, suddenly understanding. "And instead of going after the company that's at fault, now these people are just following the money." God, he hated people like that. And juries usually agree with them, even if they were dead wrong. The rich had more than enough money, sure. What harm was there in spreading it around to every sob-story Sally that came before a judge? Right, Bruce thought darkly.
"Don't we have…I don't know. Secretaries and stuff to deal with this sort of thing?" The billionaire asked disinterestedly.
"Quite, Mr. Wayne. But I'm afraid in this instance he only wants to talk to you." The CEO informed him. "My counsel is to simply see what he wants and to take a Legal attaché with you."
Legal attaché? His ass. "Fox, in case you haven't noticed, after last year, attorneys don't really scare me anymore."
"No, Mr. Wayne. I had noticed. And that's what concerns me. You see, not all of us have your natural talent for avoiding paperwork." Lucius amended with a twinkle in his dark eyes. "I'll have Legal fax you the photo release."
Bruce Wayne meandered down to the legal affairs department, stopping only to give another putting pointer to Fox's brunette secretary along the way to get into character. A few solid tips and a slap on the ass later, he was on his way. Over the last two years he'd learned there was nothing quite like a star-struck, blushing woman to stroke any man's ego. He was now a billionaire playboy born with a platinum spoon in his mouth (face it, silver was the standard of a previous milenium), who expected everything handed to him before he even asked and who the public expected nothing more of than to make controversial and outlandish headlines once every couple weeks or so. I am Bruce Wayne, Bruce mentally rehearsed as he threw open the doors, world-class jack ass and womanizer extraordinaire…
Connolly was smaller than he expected. Bordering the line between boyishly slender and just plain scrawny, pale skin and dark hair with that flawless face and those feminine eyelashes that made him so damn impossible looking. That image wasn't photo shopped, was the first rational thought through his mind, followed quickly by a second: how old was this Kid, exactly-?
"You're uh…J. Connolly?" Bruce read from the sheet as he sat down. "Guess there's no need to introduce myself," He gestured with a nod to the larger than life portrait behind the desk. I am Oz, something wicked and juvenile chuckled within him, the great and powerful…
"You don't remember me, do you?" The Kid asked quietly.
"You're the Kid from that one Ad campaign. No More Violence, right?" The Playboy asked.
"Something like that, Mr. Wayne. But we've met before. Miss Dawes introduced us." Miss Dawes. It took Bruce an agonizing eternity to realize those two words meant Rachel. "At your birthday party."
"Hell, and here I thought that cop uniform was real." Bruce forced a laugh, extolling in this carefree, drunken alter ego that was impervious to pain and emotion, stoic in even Rachel's death- "Don't tell me, you only wear it for parties-"
"You don't remember." The young man continued, ignoring the slant.
The playboy shrugged casually. "I was probably drunk-"
"You were." The boy answered emotionlessly.
"What's this about? I sweet talk your sister?" The billionaire grinned, then turned stony. "What do you want?"
"I told you I admired the Batman. Wanted to be like him. You laughed in my face and called me a ridiculously adorable worthless piece of shit. Asked me what difference would one more idealistic cop make compared to the Batman." Oh, yes. Bruce remembered. Fear Night. And he'd been forced to do everything he could to insult anyone possible. For all Ducard's faults, it was odd, wasn't it, that he'd had the humanity to spare the party guests before releasing the Crane toxin with no heed to innocent collateral-
"What are you looking for? An apology? Go ahead. Sue my ass." The billionaire commanded coldly. "We'll take your picture out of the ads and the press will load crap all over you, Kid, and you'll be back to nightshifts and parking tickets. You don't scare me. You can't threaten me. You can sue all you want to and I'll pay it without ever feeling it." He took a long pull at an iced Columbian coffee. "Kid, I'm Bruce fucking Wayne and your dick isn't big enough to get in a pissing fight with my last name, let alone this company."
But Connolly was unperturbed. "I was too scared to answer then, but before I let you use my 'ridiculously adorable piece of shit' face for your publicity stunt I wanted to say this to yours: the only difference between cops and the Batman is when we go out to fight crime, we don't get to hide behind a mask."
SHIT.
How the Hell did this Kid know-? And if he didn't, if it was just a insult then he had but a split-second to speak or he'd betray it himself-! "Yeah, that's all." The playboy snorted, heart racing under that cool facade. "That and some muscle mass. C'mon Kid, either sign the damn paper or leave. I've got a 9 o'clock tee time, you know?"
"You're a drunk and a disgrace." Jimmy Connolly blurted bluntly, and Bruce felt his face grow suddenly hot. "You don't even know the name of your own charity organization. I don't think you care if you're doing this city any good, you're just evading taxes. I don't care if you use the picture or not. I don't want any money from it. I don't want any money from you. But I can't let my face and your name be affiliated without letting you know what I think."
Rage. Anger. Shame. Guilt. The Batman could handle rejection, but to Bruce Wayne this slap on the face was too unexpected, cut far too deep through this carefree mask to his exposed heart. In three years of posing, no one had ever stood up to him. Called him down. Treated him as anything but an untouchable celebrity to be gossiped over and admired, given him everything he after wanted or asked for, hadn't dared to refuse this VIP anything…
…No one but Rachel.
Bruce stifled that howl of grief and loss to put that drunken, who-gives-a-shit smirk on with more effort than it had ever cost him before. "You done?" The world's richest man and People's most eligible bachelor asked coolly.
"Yeah." The young man said sadly as his left hand penned a neat cursive across the three pages. "I think we are." A small, boyish hand pushed the WE folder across the marble table-top. "It's Stop the Violence, Mr. Wayne. The name of your father's charity organization. It's Stop the Violence."
Even under this drunken guise, even under the Batman's stoicism, it stung. And it took every ounce of self-control as his vision tunneled and heart thundered not to release that cry of venom and rage and pounce on his tormenter to pound that famous face into unrecognizable pulp.
"My Dad might only be a City Cop, Mr. Wayne," That same small voice rang from the direction of the door. "But I'd still rather die than disappoint him. So if you can't spare a thought for the people in Gotham, at least try to think of him. "
And he did. Every damn day he did. And every damn day he doubted, wondered, questioned if Thomas and Martha Wayne could even see or hear at all, and sentient still, were there a God in Heaven and human souls with Him, whether it was pride or shame they might feel for both their sons: the Drunkard and the Dark Knight.
Bruce Wayne stood. Sighed. Wiped tears from his blood-shot eyes as he looked on that picture of his murdered parents. It was about the people, he realized. The people he'd so long forgotten in trying to protect them from themselves that they had ceased to have souls, songs, stories of their own. And in that blindness and thirst for revenge he had failed. Failed again, failed to be brave at that theater and led to his own parents death, failed to stand before a jury of peers at Chill's parole hearing to request real justice for his parents, failed to kill the man he'd vowed to…
But mostly he'd failed for even trying, even contemplating, for growing up and becoming a man and still not understanding his father's Legacy and compassion. Those jurors, the ones who let Chill walk free only to be slaughtered seconds later…Rachel, Alfred…they had understood. They had known what he had not: Thomas and Martha Wayne would never have desired anyone to remain in punishment upon seeking true redemption, not even their own killer.
There was good, Bruce reflected. Goodness and mercy and forgiveness to be found in the world of men. There was a soldier of Her Majesty's government who had killed both in her name and in cold blood, a mercenary who became private security to a young boy and when his masters had died, when the money stopped flowing he continued still, raising the child as if he were his own, never giving up hope that he might one day realize goodness, regardless of the cost. There had been a District Attorney brave enough to face down not only a dangerous world of criminals and be killed for her heroism but had the courage and strength of heart to strike a friend…There was redemption, and no man was beyond it. He may reject it, deny it, choose never to recant or repent but it was not the blackness of another man's soul or hardness of heart that mattered, but his own. When the Joker was falling, falling, plummeting to his death on the cement so far below laughingcacklingscreeching...even if he used this second chance for a greater evil, it was that choice, that potential, his ability still to choose to do good or evil that mattered, nothing more.
And with that reflection a burden was lifted from his shoulders, one he had carried so heavy upon his heart for so long he had ceased to remember he bore it at all: the stain of guilt was washed away. The blood could never be on his head. Regardless of how many that madman would torture and kill, the chaos the city might plunge to, the darkness and corruption found in the panicking hearts of Gotham, those shadows and threads of doubt and despair…that guilt was a lie. And he, Bruce Wayne, could never allow himself to be deceived. Those innocent lives, the future victims like this young officer yet to come…could never be his fault. They were the price of goodness, of redemption, of hope and free will. Of being human, and such was their cost. No more, no less. And good men, true men, men like Alfred, his father, this Detective Connolly…they knew this, and were willing and ready to bear it.
And understanding this, finally knowing, after all these years the bitter and terrible truth that forgiveness and mercy were strength not weakness Bruce Wayne knew his father's to be a dark and dangerous dream. One that many good men, his parents and Rachel but only three, had died for…
…and would continue to. As long as goodness held any hope or humanity, she precluded the annihilation of evil. It wasn't that men were instinctively or even inherently good, but that they all deserved the chance to try.
AN: Story-arc continued next chapter.