Chapter 5
The Bat
I've put the call out to a few friends. The circle is small for now, until I know more. Just Dick and Kate. Dick, Nightwing, knows me better than anyone except Alfred. As the original Robin, he learned almost everything I have to teach. He's smart, quick, an exceptional hand-to-hand combatant. Most importantly, he knows how to follow orders. This killer is too smart, too good at what he does to make stupid mistakes. It will take precision to catch him, that means I need soldiers with exceptional discipline. Kate, Batwoman, learned that kind of discipline from her father, Colonel Jacob Kane. She's grown tremendously since she began, and more than proven that she deserves to wear the bat. I reached out to both of them. For now, I'm sitting in the cave looking over what little information I do have from the crime scene at the Iceberg. It's not much to go on.
A shrill honk shatters the silence. Something's triggered the perimeter alarm, or more likely someone. Dick and Kate know to come in through the cave entrance, so who's the uninvited guest? I pull up the perimeter cameras. At first there's nothing. Then I catch a glimpse, a flash of movement. In the darkness of the night, an even darker shadow. He moves swiftly and confidently, probably doesn't know he tripped a sensor. There are three independent layers of security surrounding Wayne Manor. The first is obvious, only an amateur would miss it. The second is much more discrete. Discover that, like he did… chances are you pat yourself on the back and consider yourself home-free. You'd be wrong. The third layer makes state-of-the-art look obsolete. Let's just say not all of the components are from this planet.
The shadow comes to rest on the roof of the manor house and peers in through the high window. I switch the monitor view to night-vision to get a better look at our stealthy intruder. He's definitely a he, about six foot, lean and muscled, dressed in a matte black bodysuit, looks almost like bondage gear. The mask is like an extension of the suit. It completely covers his head with two round, goggle-like eyes. A pair of large goat horns protrude from the temples then curl back down and around, ending near his jaw. Interesting look.
He moves from one window to another, most likely looking for me. Is this our mystery killer? What does he want with Bruce Wayne? It's risky, but there's only one way to find out. I lose the cape and cowl, gloves and boots, and the belt. The rest of the suit I can cover up, some oversized silk pajamas and a robe do the trick. I slip out into the manor house, make my way to the study and turn on the reading light. Flame lit, now I wait for the moth.
It doesn't take him long, less than a minute. I hear him behind me. The hardest part of playing Bruce Wayne is suppressing the instincts and reactions I've spent decades refining. Every nerve is itching, screaming for me to leap from this chair, spin around and hurl the bat-a-rang in my pocket into his knee. Then we could have a nice, long, in-depth conversation, on my terms. But that kind of stunt is sure to blow my cover. Bruce Wayne is no warrior. Bruce Wayne couldn't even save his own parents. He's weak, slow, afraid. I have to remember that. What would Bruce do? Nothing.
So I wait, for seconds that feel like a tiny eternity, for him to slip into view. Then I try hard to act appropriately surprised. The horned, goggled fetish look makes that act a little easier. That mask covers up all traces of humanity, even his eyes. The effect is unsettling.
"Hello, Bruce," he says.
The self-satisfied tone in his voice tells me he's buying the act, thinks he's caught me off guard. Good.
"Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?" I demand. The appropriate blend of fear and self-righteous indignation helps sell it.
"Save it Mr. Wayne, I'll be asking the questions tonight. Just nod if that works for you."
I nod.
"Good, I'm here because we have a mutual person of interest, Batman. You know him, you help him. The fact that you are an ally of the Bat is the reason we are having such a friendly conversation. I assure you, my usual method of questioning is far less congenial, much more hands on. But that's not necessary here, is it?"
I shake my head, "No." My fingers play along the edge of the bat-a-rang in the pocket of my robe. The curved blade is sharp and cold.
"So tell me about your conversation with Batman. You claim he disapproves of my efforts?"
"You're the one who killed Oswald Cobblepot?"
"Of course, and you're welcome. You and all of Gotham."
"I guess Batman doesn't see it that way."
"So you say. But why should I believe you?"
"I have no reason to lie to you. Right now I just want to live through the night. Besides, you know Batman doesn't kill."
"Exactly, that's the perfection of it. Don't you see? Doesn't he? Batman is more than a man, he's a symbol of justice. He has to be righteous, uncorrupted by the taking of life. That's why I do it for him. I wade into the filth and rot and do what must be done, what he can't do. So he can remain pure and perfect. I take the sin and guilt and wear it as my burden. I am the Scapegoat."
"Scapegoat? Is that what I should tell him to call you?"
"The name is accurate, Mr. Wayne. Only, unlike an animal, I accept my fate willingly. It is my purpose to do grim but needful things, to be the killer that he cannot be. For him, for the Bat."
"So what do you want from me?"
"I needed to know your words were true. I believe they are. You must take my message to Batman. You can explain, make him understand what I'm doing. He has to see that I am not some degenerate madman, this is a righteous crusade!"
"Yeah, sounds real righteous."
The sharp, sarcastic voice comes from the far side of the room, behind him. And there, in the doorway, stands Nightwing, batons in hand.
"Now," he continues, "How about you step away from the nice man and we can talk all about this crusade thing you're so excited about."
"No, this is all wrong," Scapegoat anguishes, turning to face Dick. "You are not my enemy. I do not want to fight you."
"Works for me," Dick replies. "I'll toss over a pair of cuffs and you can just do the honors yourself. Then, you know… no fight needed. But something tells me you're not that kinda guy."
"No, I am not."
Dick always did have a way with banter. Good thing. He manages to distract Scapegoat long enough for me to slip quietly out of the room, down to the cave where I can rid myself of this feeble disguise and put on my true face.