Scene 2 – The Bat
The pain shoots through my left side. I breathe in deep and push it down. Two cracked ribs, maybe three. Nothing I can't fight through. But I should've been faster. I have to be faster, especially with an opponent like Killer Croc. I can't match his strength or his ferocity, so I have to be faster, smarter, better than him. That's how I've beaten him in the past, and that's how I'm going to beat him now. There's a crew of terrified Gotham City sewer workers depending on it.
The poor bastards stumbled into Croc's lair during some routine maintenance. Good thing one of them managed to radio for help. Good thing I was listening. Still, Croc had already eaten one of them by the time I found him, with what was left of the man's arm hanging out of his fanged, bloody mouth. That's an image I won't shake anytime soon. I managed to get between him and the four remaining sewer workers; a full stomach makes Croc a little slow. Not too slow. He got one good blow in, a wild backhand that caught me right in the side, sent me crashing into the wall.
But I'm still standing, and I'm still between Croc and his captives, lucky break. Then again, Croc's never been one for strategy; he fights like a wild animal. And that's exactly how he comes at me. Predictable. He lunges. I dive to the side and those massive clawed hands miss me by a mile. Swinging around, I drive my heel into the back of his skull, hard. His face smacks into the concrete. I hear a few teeth shatter. Croc leaps to his feet, furious, and roars.
"I will break you and suck the marrow from your bones, Batman!"
"No. You won't. You're not hurting anyone else tonight, Croc."
I reach both hands back, under the cape, and slip on the shock gloves. The air fills with the smell of ozone and their low electric hum. For a second, Croc looks unsure. A second is all I need. I launch myself at him and my fist connects with his jaw. The combined shock and impact send him sprawling. And now he's nearly blind with rage. He charges me, flailing and frantic. I easily duck his aimless attack and deliver an uppercut that makes him stagger back, then drop to his knees. One more punch and he's out.
For a moment I stand over Croc, the image of his bloody feast flashing in my mind, and I think just how easy it would be to end him, once and for all; to make sure no one else would ever suffer because of this unrepentant, unredeemable monster. A moment is all I allow myself. That thought is always there with the worst of them… Croc, Joker, even Harvey. Is it the right thing to do… to let them live? When does the weight of one person's crimes finally tip the scales? I've come at this question from every angle, attacked it time and time again, but the answer eludes me. Or rather, I've reached every possible conclusion, and found them all flawed. So the only certainty I've found is that it's simply not up to me. I don't get to make that call.
"You're going to be alright. It's over," I reassure the terrified hostages. Just to be sure, I secure Croc's hands behind his back. It takes special cuffs to hold a beast like this. Clark helped me make these, figure they'll do. I inject Croc with a powerful sedative to keep him out, then radio Gordon.
"Jim, he's down. But we lost one. I took too long."
"Don't blame yourself, Batman. You got there as fast as you could."
"Not fast enough."
Soon Gordon's men start filing in, bagging and tagging, tending to the hostages. I slip out through the sewers, up to the surface, and set a course back to the cave. Before I'm out of the thick of Gotham's urban center, Gordon's voice comes through the radio.
"You in for the night?"
"You know better than that."
"Good, meet me at the Iceberg Lounge. You're going to want to see this."
It's a short drive through the mostly deserted 4am streets. In a matter of minutes, I'm parked in an alley behind the Iceberg Lounge, the garish underworld hotspot operated by Oswald Cobblepot, aka the Penguin. Cobblepot's reputation looms large in Gotham's criminal circles, but his time as a major player is mostly over. That much is common knowledge. Now he holds court at the Iceberg, drinking and soaking in the adoration of his admirers. He still dips his beak into the occasional criminal enterprise, purely lightweight stuff, but he also supplies me with a steady diet of information – who's planning what and when. That knowledge is far less common, which is the way we both want it to stay.
I grapnel up to the roof and approach the skylight. Even with an invitation from Jim, I'm not walking in blind. The whole main room of the Iceberg is visible from up here – the bar, the stage, and the crowd of cops standing in front of it like an audience. They're almost stone still, even their mouths hardly move, and they're all staring at the same thing; the suspended, lifeless body of Oswald Cobblepot, and the Bat-signal projected onto his chest. I open the skylight and jump onto the upper balcony, then down to the floor, behind the murmuring crowd. Jim Gordon stands at the rear of the group, not talking to the others, just studying the scene.
"Jim," I say, just to let him know I'm there.
He flinches. "Damn it, do you have to do that?"
"Force of habit."
"Right, hang on a minute," He takes a step back and shouts, "OK everyone, time to clear the room!"
They all turn, confused. But then they understand, and dutifully follow his order, shuffling out into the street.
"I kept them off the stage, figured you'd want to take a look before the whole scene got trampled on."
"Thanks."
No one would have mistaken Oswald Cobblepot for a good man. Even when he was useful, it was only out of self-interest. He was greedy, cruel, a creature of nearly boundless appetite. Gotham will not mourn him, and neither will I. But I take no joy in his death, particularly the elaborate theatricality and clearly directed nature of its staging. Penguin's murder is a message written in blood, and it's addressed to me.
"Whoever did this took their time, and they knew exactly what they were doing."
"Agreed," Gordon replies.
"There's no sign of a struggle. No mess, apart from the blood. Even looks like he cleaned up when he was done. This one is confident, nothing rushed or frantic. He's taking his time, enjoying his work."
"Work? I think that's giving him a little too much credit, even if he did do Gotham a favor."
"Make no mistake Jim, we're dealing with a trained professional; someone who's killed for a living."
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Penguin was alive when he was strung up, so he must have been out cold. But there's no contusion, no head wound that could have rendered him unconscious. There is a very small puncture behind his right ear, the kind a tranquilizer dart would make. Cobblepot's jacket doesn't leave much of his neck exposed, only a few inches of soft tissue between the top of the collar and his skull. It takes a skilled marksman to make that shot."
"True."
"And this whole thing was carried out with a soldier's precision. But most pros lack ideology. They fulfill contracts, nothing more. This is different, personal somehow, to him and to me."
"You think this is a warning? Maybe someone knew Penguin was spilling secrets," Gordon suggests.
"I don't think so. You're the only one I shared that information with, and I doubt Cobblepot was loose-lipped about it."
"Then what? Why go to such trouble setting the scene?"
"This seems almost ceremonial, like he's following some sort of ritual."
"No offense, but who the hell performs rituals to Batman?"
"I don't know. But whoever it is, this won't be the end of it."