In His Own Image, Part II

February 16, 1939

Jim Gordon had a habit of repeatedly flexing the fingers on his hands when he waited. They contracted near his belt, as if he was preparing to seize his service pistol, like a sheriff out of the old west. He stood by the edge of the precinct headquarters roof, the city lights glinting off his glasses. Steam billowed from nearby vents. He was trying to be subtle about how often he looked around, but there was a nervous energy to his movements. He was attempting to avoid being startled.

It was time for Batman to make his approach. Gordon looked to Batman as he landed near him, his cape thrown back by the wind.

"Thank you. For once, you didn't scare me half to death," said Gordon.

Batman gave him a curt nod. Gordon was tall, with a slight belly and thick arms. He wore some of the thickest glasses Batman had ever seen. Gordon did not appear particularly impressive to a casual inspection, but Batman knew he was quite capable both physically and mentally.

"What do you know about the murders at Zucco's gambling parlor?" asked Gordon.

"It was for more than just gambling. It was a relay point. Guns, money, drugs. Couriers used it to pass off their goods."

"Not just a random target then. We identified the dead. Most of them were known associates. A couple that weren't, just had the misfortune of being there at the time. If it was targeting any of them, it was about as difficult a job as you could make for yourself."

"I suspect that no one person was the target. This was about hitting Zucco," said Batman.

Gordon lit a cigarette. He looked over the edge of the building.

"Could be Maroni. We know he's been testing Zucco's strength. Could be Falcone if Zucco failed him. Could be anyone looking to move up in the world," said Gordon. "Long list of possibilities."

"Could be a much shorter list," said Batman. He held up the large finger, the leftover at the scene.

"Do I even want to know?"

"Patrick Kinkaid. Or at least the closest match to him. The GCPD picked him up for vandalism two years ago. Homeless."

Gordon narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not even going to ask how you have our records. He our assailant?"

"It's likely."

"Should stand out if the rest of him is as big as that finger."

"His body's been tampered with somehow. There's a potent mix of chemicals within it."

"Never simple, is it? I doubt this Patrick is working on his own."

Batman agreed. Gordon came closer.

"We've had a few scattered reports. Really rumors. That some of the homeless are going missing.

Could be they're just headed to greener pastures. Might be worth looking into."

"I'll see what I can do."

"A year in Gotham and it's already changed so much. Makes you wonder, doesn't…" said Gordon, before realizing that his conversational partner was already gone. He grumbled a curse and finished his cigarette.

"Park Row Neighborhood Clinic."

The area wasn't often referred to as Park Row, not for at least a decade. It was Crime Alley now. The clinic was on the east end of Gotham. Outsiders complained about the city in generalities, but any true local was wary of the decay that permeated this neighborhood. Row after row of blocks were relegated to slums, with cracked sidewalks and poorly maintained roads. Many of the street lights were broken. At night it was nightmarish, during the day it was bleak. This was where someone ended up when they had truly reached the end of the line.

Bruce entered the building. It was a modest space, with a cramped waiting room that was already full of mothers holding their children and elderly patients sitting uncomfortably on their chairs. An amputee rolled by him slowly on a wheelchair. He could hear muffled conversations from down the hallway, towards where the patients would be seen. The receptionist was a middle aged woman with had bags under her eyes.

"It's a three hour wait," said the receptionist, barely looking at him.

"Actually, I'm not a patient. I'm here to see Doctor Thompkins."

"The doctor is busy."

"You can tell her it's Bruce Wayne."

That gave the receptionist a start. She made a few hasty affirmations and left the counter, venturing into the back of the clinic. Bruce leaned on the counter, avoiding the stares of a couple of the patients, who were now interested in his presence. The majority still didn't pay him any mind, ignorant or uncaring about his identity.

His shoulder ached, the morning's exercises extracting their price. He was seeking to perfect his swinging, unsatisfied with the somewhat rough manner that his current technique worked. There could be no doubts about his ability to maneuver through the city.

"This is one way to make up for answering my letter so late," said a voice from the hallway. Doctor Thompkins was older than the last time Bruce saw her. A few more wrinkles. The last of the color in her hair giving way to grey. But, she still had that spark behind the eyes that spoke to her vigor. The version that Bruce remembered best seemed to hang over her, in the corners of his sight. The one that comforted him all those years ago.

"Doctor Thompkins."

"Oh, come now. Call me Leslie. Let's talk in my office," she said, beckoning him along.

Her office was humble, like the rest of the clinic, with only a smattering of photos for personal decoration. He unconsciously flinched upon noticing his parents in one of them, smiling along with Leslie decades ago.

"It can't be easy, coming here. At least that's what I tell myself about you avoiding me for the past year," said Leslie.

"I really didn't mean to take so long," said Bruce, "My return, well.. it's been a readjustment."

"Don't worry, Bruce, I'm not the jealous type. Unlike some of those women you seem to like cavorting with. At least that's what the papers say."

He feigned embarrassment.

"To what do I owe the pleasure for your visit? I don't want to seem rushed but we do have quite a few patients right now. There's a flu going around these parts."

"I wanted to visit. And to see how we could help. Wayne Enterprises, I mean."

"They've already done plenty."

"Oh?"

"Don't play dumb, it doesn't suit you. I know the bulk of the donations we receive are from you. Or at least your company."

Bruce looked around the room. He considered the relative squalor of the place.

"You're wondering where the money's going?" she said. Bruce nodded.

"Medicine is expensive. So is distributing it. And having properly trained staff. We're short handed, but I need people that see the value of this work, not opportunists. If that means we have to make due with these conditions, then so be it."

"We could do more for you," said Bruce.

Leslie chuckled. She shook her head slightly.

"I can't say no to that Bruce, but it's more than just this clinic. What have you been doing all these years?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were gone for almost six years. I understand this city hurt you. I've seen that hurt in everyone that comes into this place. Many of them don't have the resources to fall back on. But, you're back and there's not much to show for it."

Bruce stared at her. He hadn't expected the interrogation.

"Sure, you send us a check every month. I appreciate that, we all do. It has made a difference.

But, I think that Wayne Enterprises, that you could be doing more for the people of Gotham. Your parents made sure that their money was invested in these communities. To change them. For the better.

The company does some of that. The research they're doing in the medical field saves lives. Yet, too little reaches the people on the streets here."

"I… like I said, I've been finding my bearings," said Bruce.

Leslie appeared poised to continue, but the energy left her. She slumped back in her chair.

"What am I doing? This shouldn't have become a lecture." She glanced at the photo with his parents. "I imagine even coming this close is hard for you."

Leslie leaned close to him. She put a hand on his cheek. Bruce flicked his eyes down.

"All this time and I still see that little boy. I'm sorry Bruce."

Bruce brushed her away and stood.

"It's okay, Leslie. You've given me a lot to consider." He hesitated by the door. "Say, have you noticed anything strange with the homeless population around here lately? I heard a few people talking about it outside."

Leslie looked puzzled, but she said, "Actually, we have had a few people go missing in the past few weeks. Some of our patients never came by for their checkup. It happens. They leave town or decide to avoid it or worse. Why do you ask?"

"Just curiosity. I'm out of my element here and hearing that piqued my interest.

I'll see you around, Doctor Thompkins."

"Bruce Wayne, you're really pushing it this time," said Julie Madison. Her arms were crossed, her brow furrowed in displeasure. He was in front of her apartment building, running late as usual. The diversion to the clinic had cost him more time than expected.

Bruce smiled sheepishly.

"Something came up, Julie. With the board. We can still make the moving showing. We can grab dinner after."

Julie looped her arm around his forearm forcefully.

"I'm choosing where we go," she said. "I suppose I should be glad I'm finally getting you alone."

They narrowly made it to the theater. Julie and Bruce settled into a middle row of the crowded theater. They watched a few of the cartoons, before the newsreels dampened the mood. They spoke of the growing tensions in Europe, of the collision course that Germany and its neighbors appeared to be on. The Spanish Civil War was all but finished, with Franco's forces having decimated their enemies. He could hear people murmuring at the latest reports.

The talking ceased as the main picture came on. A Western by the name of Stagecoach. The audience grew enraptured by the drama that followed, as the band of characters made their perilous journey. Bruce was swept along. In spite of it all, Bruce still loved the movies. During his travels, he took the time to see new releases when he could, where he could, sneaking in, or paying for it with the little money he made during his journey from odd jobs. The screen could transport him to another world.

He glanced at Julie throughout, seeing that she was as entranced by the picture. Often her lips parted slightly, as if she were holding in a breath, tense with anticipation. At a couple points, she grasped for Bruce's hand.

They left the theater energized, the previous bad blood all but gone. Julie insisted on a nearby restaurant that served Hungarian food. The promise of a generous tip got them a table with ease.

"That was quite keen, huh, Bruce," said Julie. She ate with the refinement of a member of the upper crust.

"It sure was."

"I used to play out games like that movie with my brothers. Cowboys and Indians, that sort of thing. They tried to make me the damsel in distress a few times, but I sorted them out," said Julie.

"I'm sure you did."

"Did you have a favorite game like that? Or a hero?"

"A few. Zorro."

"I loved him too. Did you see that movie of his? The one with Douglas Fairbanks? I remember running around the house, swinging homemade swords for weeks."

"As a matter of fact I did." Bruce hesitated. He felt a piece of resistance give way. "Actually, that was the movie I saw the night my parents died."

Julie's face transformed into a mask of regret. She reached her hand out to his, but he withdrew it.

"Oh, Bruce. That was careless of me."

"It's okay."

"It isn't though."

"I don't need to be treated like a wounded puppy. I've had enough people tip-toeing around me most of my life," Bruce said. There was more truth to that statement that he meant.

Their conversation took on a stilted quality for a time, as they ignored what had just transpired. It gradually circled around to Julie's social life, a favorite of her and many of her peers. Bruce appreciated her attempts to salvage the night.

"Do you remember that psychiatrist? The one from the nightclub?"

"I think I had too much to drink that night. Remind me," said Bruce.

"Name was Hugo Strange. Anyway, I understand Linda's already gone to see him. He did make that offer of his services."

"I didn't know she struggled with anything like that," said Bruce.

"I don't know that she does, beyond a dash of narcissism," said Julie, "I think she just thinks it's fashionable to see a shrink."

"How did she like it?"

"Apparently she loved it. This Strange works out of an estate out in the county. Near the old Mill's plant. Linda called it very gothic. I think a lot of those properties went under in '29. I recall my father talking about purchasing a few of them."

"Do you think you'll go see him?" asked Bruce.

"No. Not for me. I prefer to keep whatever's going on up here to myself. This may strike you as dramatic, but I don't think the world could handle it," she said, pointing to her head.

"On that we can agree," said Bruce, raising his glass.

The second time Bruce visited the Park Row Neighborhood Clinic it was much less busy. There was only a sleepy eyed security guard making the rounds, his routes slower and slower as the night went on.

He had left Julie at her apartment, a kiss on the cheek his parting gift. She had been dancing around the possibility of him spending the night, but Bruce pretended to be exhausted. There were limits to how close he could get.

It was easy enough for Batman to pick the lock on one of the windows and slip inside. The patient files were well maintained, a testament to Leslie's professionalism. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

"Patrick Kinkaid."

The man was a regular at the clinic, an idea he had deduced from the location of his arrest by the GCPD. Batman noted that he had missed a recent inoculation by several weeks. The information did not indicate his prodigious size nor any other conditions implied by the size of the finger. It did, however, give an approximate area in which Patrick frequented. Namely Aparo Park.

Aparo Park had been idyllic once, and there was a remnant of that identity clinging to life. The vegetation was poorly cared for, with the trees and bushes overgrown and tangled. It resembled a wild patch of woodland, encroaching on Gotham. Small campfires burned throughout, as enclaves of the poor huddled by their glow. The police often treated it like hostile territory, particularly at night, guarding the perimeter, but seldom entering it. The gangs knew this and took full advantage of the cover it offered.

Gotham was still in the throes of the Depression, even as other parts of the country staggered their way back to normalcy. The poor, the unhoused washed up on their shores, trapped in a place with little hope. They made their Hoovervilles, finding work where they could, always on the fringes, always scrabbling for what little they could grasp. Batman knew in many respects it suited the city to have such an underclass of the desperate. They were a convenient labor force. Or scapegoat.

There was the matter of how to approach these people. Batman was a terrifying figure to most people, even the ones he saved. There was value in the shock that his appearance generated, in the myth that clung to his presence. He weighed his options. He could try another disguise, go amongst them as one of their own. Batman had tried that in his first nights, which nearly got him killed. No, he would meet them as he was.

Predictably, many of the people in the park fled or cowered at the sight of him. Even without attempting to sneak up on them, they were distrustful of him. Batman could not blame them. His brief attempts at conversation were met with fear and silence. He surveyed the park.

It was on the ninth try that Batman found someone who would not run. The woman's companions scattered as he walked to their fire, underneath a small stone bridge, by the trickle of water that was once a stream.

The woman merely took him in and said, "Do you want to join me?"

Batman took a seat opposite her. She was difficult to place age wise from the dirt and hard living, her dark skin marked with lines from time in the sun. Her hair was tied up tightly in curls. She took a few small bites of a piece of cooked meat.

"You're that Batman fella, ain't you?"

"I am."

"Dunn said he saw you once. Over by Amusement Mile. I told him he was making it up, but I gotta say, now that I see ya, I know he was tellin the truth."

"You're the first one who isn't afraid of me."

"I got worse things to worry about. Besides, if you had wanted to get the drop on me, I figure you coulda."

Batman couldn't help a slight smile.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Mathilde. The others call me Mattie."

"I may need your help."

Mattie took another bite. She sat up straighter.

"Now this is interestin."

"Did you know a Patrick Kinkaid?"

"I might have. Why?"

"He's in trouble and I'm trying to help him."

She put down her food.

"Help as in 'help'?"

"Truly help him. He's involved in something dangerous. When did you last see him?"

Mattie considered her options.

"I suppose I may as well tell ya. Pat left a few weeks back. He and a few others got in one of those work trucks that have been coming by."

"Work trucks?"

"Yeah, they're lookin for day laborers. Said they'll pay a buck or two. At least give em lunch."

Batman gestured for her to continue.

"Only none of em have been comin back. Less and less of us are goin to em at this point. I hear they've started grabbin folks."

"Do you know who's running the trucks?"

"No. Lotsa rumors. Nothin for sure. Hell, a few of us thought it was you somehow."

"How often do these trucks come, Mattie?"

"Used to be a few times a week. They slowed down ever since we stopped jumpin at the opportunity. Figure they're going for fresh pickings elsewhere."

This narrowed it down, without providing a clear answer. There was still a lot of ground to cover. He got up.

"Thank you, Mattie. I'll do my best to find your friends."

"I didn't say Pat was a friend. But, we gotta look out for each other. No one else is."

Batman left, leaving a roll of dollars.

"The goddamn Batman," she said as he vanished into the park.