The Batman 2.0
Chapter 6: Strange Interrogation
11 AM
Commissioner Gordon entered the office of Professor Hugo Strange, the lead psychologist at Arkham Hospital. The office was meticulously organized, its walls lined with framed degrees, certifications, and photos of Strange posing with various inmates he had supposedly helped rehabilitate. Standing near Strange was a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes and a perpetually dour expression—Professor Jonathan Crane, Strange's assistant.
As Gordon stepped inside, Strange rose from behind his desk, his overzealous smile practically splitting his face. "Commissioner Gordon, a pleasure to see you. What brings you to my humble sanctuary today?" He extended his hand and offered Gordon a seat.
Gordon shook it briefly, his eyes already scanning the room. "I'll stand, thank you," he replied curtly, his tone cool as he took in the decor. His gaze lingered on a photo of Strange standing next to Roman Sionis, the notorious owner of Janus Cosmetics.
Strange noticed his interest and leaned slightly forward. "Ah, yes. Roman Sionis. He was a patient of mine some years ago. Known for his... violent tendencies. I helped him achieve a remarkable recovery. He's doing quite well with his company now—no sudden outbursts to speak of."
Gordon gave a small nod, his face betraying no emotion. "I'm here to ask about another inmate—Edward Nygma. Do you know of anyone who might have been close to him? Anyone who might have been released recently?"
Strange's perpetual smile faltered for only a second before he regained composure. "Commissioner, I prefer to call them patients, not inmates. And as for Mr. Nygma, I don't believe anyone here has ever gotten particularly close to him. He's... well, let's just say he keeps to himself. Why do you ask?"
Gordon folded his arms, his sharp eyes fixed on Strange. "One of Nygma's former targets, William Kenzie, was murdered in the county lockup. And another one of his targets, someone—disguised as Bruce Wayne—blew up Wayne National Bank, killing over twenty people. Nygma is our only lead right now."
He turned his attention to Crane, who had remained silent and still, almost statue-like, throughout the conversation. "What about you?" Gordon asked, his tone pointed. "Have you seen anyone getting close to Nygma?"
Crane opened his mouth, but before he could answer, Strange interjected smoothly, "Oh, Professor Crane primarily works with Blackgate inmates. I can't be everywhere at once, you see, and Crane is an excellent substitute."
Strange then added with a faint smirk, "Besides, I thought your main lead in the investigation was that Batman was somehow involved."
Gordon shifted his gaze back to Crane, ignoring Strange's remark. "Does he always speak for you?" he asked.
Crane finally spoke, his voice measured and cold. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to add to your investigation, Commissioner. But I wish you luck in finding your suspect."
Gordon scoffed softly at Crane's tone. "Thanks." He glanced back at Strange. "Would you mind if I took a look at some of the inmates'—patients'—records?"
Crane shot Strange a subtle but concerned look. Strange, however, maintained his composure, his smile never wavering. "I'm afraid those records are strictly confidential, Commissioner. But if you file the appropriate paperwork, I'll be happy to process your request as soon as possible."
Gordon muttered under his breath, "Paperwork, huh? Sure."
With one last glance at the two men, Gordon turned and left the office, his suspicions gnawing at him. Something about Strange's over-the-top politeness and Crane's unnerving demeanor didn't sit right. As the door clicked shut behind him, he made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Arkham—and its staff.
As Commissioner Gordon reached his vehicle, his radio buzzed to life. "Commissioner, this is Dexter," the voice of the GCPD forensic scientist came through with urgency.
"This is Gordon," he responded, unlocking his car.
"Gordon, we found something from the burning car," Dexter explained. "There are traces of a makeup compound on the door handles and steering wheel."
Gordon furrowed his brow as he slid into the driver's seat. "That makes sense, especially if someone was disguising themselves as Bruce Wayne. Is that all you've got?"
"No, sir," Dexter continued. "The makeup compound is... untraceable."
Gordon's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Untraceable? Be more specific."
"Our systems couldn't find any matches in the database," Dexter said, his voice tense. "It comes up as an unknown, non-specific material."
Gordon leaned back in his seat, frustration creeping into his tone. "Can you at least break it down? Figure out the elements it's made of or where it might originate?"
"We did some digging," Dexter replied. "The closest match we could find is an old, discontinued product called Re-Nu. It was taken off the market after reports of it causing severe disfigurements to some of its clients. The whole company went under."
Gordon's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "What happened to the company after that?"
"It was bought out," Dexter said, pausing for effect. "By Janus Cosmetics."
Gordon let out an exasperated sigh. "Of course. This keeps getting deeper and deeper."
He started the car, already formulating his next move. "All right. I'll head over to Janus Cosmetics and see what I can dig up. You keep working on tracing where that compound might have originated. Let me know if anything else comes up."
"Yes, sir," Dexter replied before the line went dead.
Gordon sat in silence for a moment, piecing together the puzzle. A connection to Janus Cosmetics—and Roman Sionis—was a lead he couldn't ignore. With a deep breath, he shifted into gear and pulled onto the road, ready to pursue this new thread.
12 PM
At the Monarch Theater, a meeting was being held to announce an upcoming production. Basil Karlo, secretly disguised as the stage producer, stood in front of the cast. He enthusiastically shared the news of their next play, The Terror, which would star himself and his leading lady, Rosemary Flannery. Basil, in his disguise, urged the cast to review their scripts thoroughly, emphasizing that the play would debut in just two weeks.
The announcement sparked quiet murmurs of concern among the cast, prompting the disguised Basil to address the group. "Is there going to be any problems?" he asked sharply. The cast, sensing his authority, quickly shook their heads.
"Good," Basil said. Then, still posing as the stage producer, he informed them that he would be leaving town for a while. During his absence, Basil Karlo himself would oversee the production and handle all financial matters. This news caused the muttering to return, now laced with unease.
Rosemary, unafraid to speak her mind, asked, "If Basil is going to be in charge, why isn't he here?"
The disguised Basil smiled thinly. "Basil will be here shortly. When he arrives, I expect you all to follow his direction. He is, after all, the star of the show." With that, he made his exit, leaving the cast stewing in silent apprehension.
Minutes later, Basil entered the room as himself, his true face revealed. Spotting the cast's nervous expressions, he asked, "What did I miss?"
Rosemary let out an audible scoff and walked past him without a word, heading toward her dressing room. Basil, unwilling to let the moment slide, followed her.
"I suppose you've heard the news, huh?" he said, trying to strike up a conversation.
"Yeah, I heard," Rosemary replied curtly, keeping her focus forward.
Basil attempted to lighten the mood, pulling out a rose from behind his back. "I bought this for you," he said, holding it out to her. "I was thinking maybe after rehearsal, we could grab a bite to eat. Somewhere fancy, you know? Since we're getting a raise and all. Congratulations on your raise, by the way." He smiled, trying to win her over.
Rosemary looked at the rose but didn't take it. "I already have a date tonight," she said bluntly. "I'm surprised you didn't know that, since word gets around so fast around here."
Basil's smile faded, and his expression darkened. "Ah, yes. Harvey Dent," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "What do you see in that stiff? Aren't you worried he might end up like the last D.A.?"
To punctuate his point, Basil mimed an explosion with his hands, clearly referencing the grisly fate of Harvey's predecessor.
Rosemary's patience snapped. "You're sick," she retorted, stepping closer to glare at him. "Harvey isn't corrupt like the last D.A. And, for your information, he's a lot smarter. Not to mention, way cuter." She smirked, adding with finality, "So I'll take my chances."
Turning sharply on her heel, Rosemary opened the door to her dressing room. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have things to attend to," she said coldly, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Basil stood frozen for a moment, gripping the rose tightly in his hand. The thorns pressed into his palm, but he barely noticed.
As his smile twisted into a scowl, he dropped the rose to the ground and ground it beneath his heel. "We'll see about that, Rosemary," he muttered darkly before stalking away, his mind already plotting his next move.
7 PM
As dusk painted the skies over Gotham in hues of orange and gray, Commissioner Gordon stood atop the police department's roof, next to the Batsignal. He reached for the switch, ready to illuminate the beacon, when a low voice emerged from the shadows.
"Don't turn it on. If you do, you'll have every cop in Gotham racing up here."
Gordon spun around to find Batman partially cloaked in the shadows, his voice calm but commanding.
"I figured as much," Gordon said, stepping back from the signal.
Without wasting time, Batman got straight to business. "What did you find out from Arkham?"
"Not much," Gordon admitted, his voice tinged with frustration. "Just the usual runaround. Hugo Strange, the lead shrink, insisted Nygma had no close accomplices. His assistant, Jonathan Crane, wasn't much help either."
Batman, always thinking three steps ahead, pressed further. "Did you get a list of recently released inmates?"
Gordon nodded and handed over a short list of names. "I'm not sure there's anything useful here," he added.
Batman scanned the document with his recordable contact lenses, quickly processing the names. None of them stood out. "Perhaps we're looking in the wrong place," he mused aloud.
Gordon raised a brow. "How so?"
"Nygma's followers—the ones we arrested after the arena incident—most would've ended up at Blackgate, not Arkham. If he made new connections, it might've been there," Batman reasoned.
Gordon considered this. "That's possible. He was able to rally his followers through the internet. Do you think someone else could've taken over his site?"
"I'll investigate," Batman replied.
Switching gears, Gordon offered new information. "Forensics found something unusual with the getaway car. There were traces of an unknown makeup compound on the door handles and steering wheel. They're still trying to figure out where it originated."
Batman absorbed this, his mind working through the implications. "Has anyone checked purchases for materials that could be used to craft a replica Batsuit?"
"Actually, I've already looked into that," Gordon replied, pulling out another list. "But again, there's not much to go on. Most of these items could be bought by motocross enthusiasts or people prepping for Halloween." He paused and added with a smirk, "No offense."
Batman's stoic glare erased Gordon's smile.
"I have my team following leads as well," Batman said, shifting the focus.
"Your team? Gordon asked. "There's more of you?" Before Gordon could say anything else, a thunderous explosion shattered the night's stillness, followed by the wail of distant sirens. The commissioner instinctively turned toward the sound.
"Great. What now?" he muttered, spinning back toward Batman—but the Dark Knight was gone, already racing toward the chaos.
Minutes before the explosion, Lieutenant Harvey Bullock stood across the street from Wayne Jewelers, watching Bruce Wayne step out of the building. His face twisted with suspicion as he called out, "Well, well, well. Look who we have here."
Bruce turned briefly but kept walking, his posture calm and deliberate.
"The police have been looking for you, Mr. Wayne," Bullock continued, his voice dripping with disdain. He glanced up at the jeweler's sign. "What are you doing here? Huh? Pulling another insurance scam like the one at Wayne National? Sales down, or something?"
Bruce Wayne, or someone who looked exactly like him, walked on as if Bullock's words were nothing more than static in the background.
"Hey!" Bullock shouted, stepping into the street. "I'm talking to you!"
Finally, the figure stopped and turned, a wide, almost deranged grin plastered across his face. In his hand was a small detonator. "Showtime," he said gleefully, pressing the button.
KABOOM!
The explosion rocked the street, sending fiery debris and shattered glass flying in all directions. Bullock and several pedestrians were thrown to the ground as the front of Wayne Jewelers erupted in a fireball. Smoke billowed into the evening sky, and screams filled the air.
Amid the chaos, the Bruce Wayne look-alike sprinted away, disappearing into the crowd.
Minutes later, Batman arrived, his cape rippling in the smoky air. He scanned the scene, his mind piecing together fragments of the chaos, but before he could investigate further—
BANG!-BANG!
Bullets pinged off his armored suit as Bullock, rising from the ground with his gun drawn, fired at him.
"Hold it right there, you pointy-eared bastard!" Bullock snarled. "You're wanted for the murder of William Kenzie!"
Batman instinctively ducked into an alleyway, evading the gunfire. Grappling hook in hand, he fired it toward the rooftop and ascended swiftly.
By the time Bullock reached the alley, all he caught was a glimpse of Batman's cape disappearing over the edge of the roof, billowing like a dark shadow in the smoky glow of the fire.
"Sonofabitch!" Bullock bellowed, kicking a trash can in frustration as sirens wailed in the distance.
9 PM
The grand halls of Wayne Tower echoed with the sharp, relentless pounding of fists against the front door. Alfred Pennyworth, the loyal steward of Wayne Manor, opened the door with a measured calm, only to be greeted by a swarm of S.W.A.T officers storming in. Their heavy boots thudded against the polished floors, weapons at the ready. Behind them was Lieutenant Bullock, his demeanor as gruff as ever.
"What is the meaning of all this?" Alfred demanded, his voice steady yet firm as he watched the team scatter through the manor, searching every room and corner.
Bullock smirked as he shoved a warrant against Alfred's chest. "This is a warrant, directly from the mayor and the District Attorney, to search the premises and bring in Bruce Wayne," Bullock declared, his tone triumphant. "Now, why don't you make my job easier and tell me where I can find him?"
Alfred's face betrayed no emotion. "He isn't here right now," he replied curtly.
Bullock's eyes narrowed. "How convenient," he sneered, turning to his team. "Tear the place apart, boys. He's gotta be hiding somewhere."
Moments later, Commissioner Gordon arrived on the scene, parking his car hastily before entering the manor. Alfred glanced at him, his gaze piercing.
"I'm sorry about this," Gordon said, his voice tinged with regret. "My hands are tied. Bullock went over my head."
"What's happened?" Alfred asked, his concern laced with suspicion.
"Bruce Wayne, or someone disguised as Bruce Wayne, blew up Wayne Jewelers," Gordon explained. "Where is he now?"
Alfred hesitated for a brief moment. "He's been out for a few hours," he said carefully.
"Where was he going?" Gordon pressed.
Before Alfred could construct a convincing lie, a shout rang out from one of the S.W.A.T officers. "We've found something in the study!"
Gordon and Alfred followed the officer into the study, where several newspaper clippings were spread across the desk. The articles highlighted the bank explosion and the murder of William Kenzie. Bullock trailed behind them, a smug look on his face.
"Your boy clipping mementos?" Bullock asked sarcastically, motioning toward the desk.
Alfred remained silent, his expression unreadable.
"That's it," Bullock growled. "Cuff him, boys. If he won't give up Bruce Wayne, we'll take him in instead."
The S.W.A.T officers stepped toward Alfred, but Gordon quickly intervened, holding up his hands.
"Now wait a goddamned minute!" Gordon snapped. "We're here for Bruce, not his butler."
"He's an accomplice," Bullock barked back. "He's hiding something, and I'm not letting him walk."
Gordon's jaw clenched, but he kept his composure. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "I'll take him in for questioning myself. You boys keep searching."
Reluctantly, Bullock waved his men off Alfred. Gordon placed a firm but gentle hand on Alfred's arm, leading him toward the door. As they exited the room, Alfred leaned in and whispered, "Master Bruce would not leave a trail. Someone wants you to find those clippings."
Gordon nodded subtly, his mind racing as he pieced together the implications. He immediately wondered if someone on the S.W.A.T. team might've been involved somehow.
