Batman

The Dark Knight Detective.....

BATMAN

"Alone  In Death"

Batman #19 July, Year Two

by Stephen Crosby

 

    A newspaper blew along the sidewalk, carried by the strong winds on that Gotham day. It caught against the leg of a pedestrian, and he picked up the paper before it could get free. This man was of average height, in relatively good shape, with brown hair and eyes. His face may have been considered handsome if not for those cold eyes.
    On the front page of the newspaper was the photograph of a man with no arms or legs. According to the newspaper, the man’s name had been Steeljacket, a mechanical genius who had previously lost his arms to frostbite. The loss of legs was more recent, the result of having being dipped in liquid nitrogen. His condition was listed as stable, but apparently his mind had shut itself down.
    The man reading the newspaper found the situation very funny and ironic. There had been a number of such incidents recently, which several of the victims dead as a result. That was why he, Captain Cold, had returned to Gotham City. Some people were nervous about the attacks, and were willing to pay a lot of money to remove whoever was behind them.
    The job wouldn’t have been Captain Cold’s first choice. His previous trip into Gotham City had ended with him beaten and humiliated at the hands of the local police force. But after escaping from jail again he needed cash fast. Besides, with the rumors about the Batman being dead and all the other costumed vigilantes missing, Captain Cold only had the police to worry about. That suited him just fine.
    As far as this supposed freak killer went, Captain Cold wasn’t that concerned. He’d dealt with some bad things before, including Hell. The only real difficulty he saw was in actually finding the guy and that would actually be pretty easy when Captain Cold thought about it.
    The bell jingled when Captain Cold opened the door to the convenience store. As he walked up towards the cashier, Captain Cold reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and drew out his blue shades. The trenchcoat was then opened and shrugged off his shoulders, sliding off his arms to fall onto the floor. Underneath, Captain Cold was wearing his blue and white parka, the hood of which he pulled up over his head. The cashier, who had been watching Captain Cold from the moment he had stepped into the store, reached under the counter.
    Like a gunfighter Captain Cold drew the freeze gun from his holster and fired. The cashier was caught in the shoulder of the arm he’d moved. In Captain Cold’s second holster was a handheld pellet gun, which he had also drawn and fired. A pellet struck the frozen shoulder at high-speed, shattering the brittle flesh and bone on impact. The cashier screamed and took a step back. His bloodless severed limb fell to the ground. The sight was too much for the young man, who fainted.
    Captain Cold cursed. He’d taken the Gothamites for a tougher breed, and there one faints at the slightest shock. Probing the convenience store with his eyes, Captain Cold caught sight in the mirror of a middle-aged woman kneeling down in the next aisle. The dame hadn’t screamed, he’d thought with some small amount of respect. Soon he was standing over her, both guns holstered.
    “Five minutes after I leave, trip the alarm and then carry that arm outside,” Captain Cold ordered. “Scream at the top of your lungs that it was Captain Cold who did this. Not Mister Freeze.”
    “I’ve seen Freeze before,” the woman said, with only a trace of a tremor. “You’re not him.”
    Captain Cold smirked. “No. My complexion’s better. Five minutes.”
    After picking up the trenchcoat, Captain Cold went into the back room. Instead of continuing out the back way, he stepped to the side of the doorway and waited. He could hear the woman moving, not waiting as he had instructed. There was a sound of her picking something up, not a flesh-and-blood arm but something heavy and metallic. Captain Cold’s assessment had been right. The folks in Gotham are tough, but they’re also stupid as well.
    The door hadn’t been closed all the way. Captain Cold threw it open silently. Facing him was the woman, a shotgun held sideways in her hands. Before she could react, Captain Cold fired his freeze gun directly at her face. When she fell, Captain Cold heard her head shatter against the floor. He’d already turned to leave, and was wondering what he’d do for attention next.
Suddenly having the freak killer come to Captain Cold wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d originally thought.

    It hadn’t been easy to make Stephanie Brown talk. Partly, it was because he’d been unwilling to actually hurt her physically. But generally harm towards a third party worked more effectively, and it had taken Stephanie longer to break down that most would have. It had taken a while, but eventually her mother’s screams had gotten through.
    When Arthur Brown saw this reaction on his daughter’s face, he leaned forward expectantly. “Have you forgotten already how you can stop this? Do you need another clue?”
    “I don’t know his real name!” Stephanie screamed. For the past few days that was all she’d been saying to her father. But he knew that she operated as the costumed vigilante Spoiler, and that she’d worked with the Batman and Robin. Everybody in that line of work must know each other, he’d thought, and nothing Stephanie said had convinced him otherwise.
    But this final time, Stephanie added something. “But Robin’s real name is…is Tim Drake! He can tell you anything you need. Please, please leave her alone!”
    “Of course,” Arthur Brown assured his daughter Stephanie. “I don’t need her anymore.” He patted her hand, pressed as it was against the chair to which she was bound. “But I’ll still need to make this boy talk.”
    As her father stood up and walked into the next room, where his men were with her mother, Stephanie Brown closed her eyes to hold back the tears. She wasn’t crying about her mother, or even about her own forthcoming fate. In her mind, Stephanie could see Tim’s face of disappointment over her betrayal.
    Spoiler had just handed Robin over to Cluemaster.

    Upstairs, Bruce Wayne was enjoying the afternoon with Vicki Vale, while downstairs Cassandra Cain was hiding in a cave. The way the poor girl lived broke Alfred Pennyworth’s heart, but he said nothing as he poured Ms. Vale’s tea.
    “Thank you, Alfred,” Vicki said with sincerity. She sipped her tea, and then continued to address Bruce. “So, come on. Will you go to the exhibit or not?”
    Feigning boredom, Bruce Wayne shrugged. “Photography never was my thing, Vicki. I only pretended to be interested in your work because I was trying to sleep with you at the time.”
    “And because there’s no chance of that now, you refuse to allow culture into your life?” asked Vicki sardonically.
    “Well, it’d be different if he wasn’t already dead,” Bruce replied. “At least then I could buy a couple of his photos as an investment. The value has already gone up as much as it will.”
    “Yes, it’s a shame that you couldn’t have added a few thousand dollars to your net worth of billions.” Vicki leaned back with a sigh of regret. “Fine, don’t accompany me to the posthumous exhibit of my old friend Spencer. It probably wouldn’t matter if I said that, during those years when his art was worthless, he supported himself by shooting lingerie models, many of whom will doubtlessly be there.”
    Bruce Wayne perked any eyebrow. “Oh, well, if you’re going to guilt me into it, I suppose I can free up another night.”
Vicki smiled. “Why Bruce, that makes pretty much every night this month that you’ve had time for me. What, has Gotham’s favorite playboy found himself in a rut?”
    “If I have, I’m sure a few of those models will be more than willing to help me out.”
As the pair of friends laughed and moved on to other topics, Alfred moved on into the kitchen to collect brunch. The plates contained a collection of fruits, pastries and pasta salad, with no meat products at Ms. Vale’s request. She had become a frequent visitor of the mansion over the past month, of which Alfred was most pleased.
    Also pleasing to the aged butler had been the changed habits of Master Bruce, who had taken the tragic death of Jean Paul Valley as an opportunity to cease his activities as the Batman. Oh, his nights were still as full as ever, spent in the cave training with Ms. Cain or analyzing all the information related to Mr. Valley’s death. Young Mr. Drake had been forbidden from operating in costume until told otherwise, Mr. Grayson was limiting his activities in the city of Bludhaven, and Ms. Bertinelli had left Gotham City.
    Normally under such circumstances, criminal activity would have risen dramatically. However, most of the more notorious denizens of Gotham had already been eliminated and, according to Master Bruce, Mario Falcone was still in the process of building his organization. For the moment, Gotham City was relatively peaceful.
    That day, the same couldn’t be said about Wayne Manor.
    “So you’re the butler, huh? I bet you did it.”
    Alfred turned around sharply, a paring knife in his hand. Standing in the kitchen door was an unkempt middle-aged man smoking a cheap cigarette.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    The man blew a puff of smoke. The stench was most unpleasant to Alfred. “Not sure what you did, but hey, you’re the butler so you must have done something. The butler did it. That’s the saying, right?”
    “I demand to know who you are and what you’re doing in this house.” Alfred said in a calm but firm tone.
    “The name’s Sam Bradley. Most people call me Slam. I’m a private investigator. We’ve got the same boss. I’m here to see him. You gonna announce me, or should I just go interrupt his smooth-talking that dame with the legs?”
    Before Alfred could give a proper response, Vicki Vale rushed into the kitchen. She was in the process of placing her cell phone back into her purse. “I’m sorry Alfred, but the Gazette needs me back in the city. Any chance I could take something to go?”
    “Certainly, Ms. Vale.” Alfred glanced at Slam Bradley as he turned towards the cabinet where the Tupperware was held. “This is, er, Mr. Bradley. He’s here to see Master Bruce.”
    Slam gave a wide grin at that. “Oh, aren’t you just so lucky his parents didn’t name him Bates.” To Ms. Vale he nodded his head slightly. “Morning. Call me Slam.”
    Vicki looked Slam up and down, and then gave a little shake of the head. “No. No, I don’t think I will.” She accepted the container that Alfred handed her. “Thank you Alfred. I’ll be calling Bruce later this evening.” She stepped past Slam Bradley without looking directly at him, and left the kitchen.
    As Vicki was walking away, Slam glanced back at her. “Heh. Nice looking dame.”
    “Ms. Vale is a lady, and I would appreciate you not talking about her that way,” Alfred scolded. He’d taken up the tray of food, and had turned towards the door leading outside. “If you would please follow me, I shall take you to Master Bruce.”
As Alfred was walking, he could hear Mr. Bradley saying softly to himself, “Heh, sure, I’ll walk that way,” and had the distinct feeling that his stride was being comically impersonated.
    In the breakfast nook, Bruce Wayne was sipping a light colored fluid from a wine glass. Alfred knew it was juice, but said nothing to make Mr. Bradley aware of this.
    “Sir, this gentlemen,” Alfred said the last word in an insincere tone, “claims to work for you.”
Bruce rose from his chair and presented his hand to Mr. Bradley with a smile on his face. “Well, I suppose that’s accurate. Mr. Bradley, right? You were hired by Lucius, I remember.”
    “Huh, guess I should have come later in the day then,” Slam remarked, as he eyed Bruce Wayne’s glass. His hand went inside his open coat and he threw a folder onto the table. “I figured you’d want to see that. It’s my progress on the investigation so far.”
    Bruce Wayne gave the folder a brief glance then looked up at Slam with puzzlement. “I don’t understand. Lucius hired you.”
    The private detective shrugged. “Just figured you’d be interested, is all. If you, or anybody, needs to talk to me about it, I’ll be at my office all through the night.” Before either Alfred or Bruce could stop him, Slam took the open bottle from the table and took a swig. When he finished, Slam looked at the bottle with discontent. “Eh, too fruity for my tastes. I prefer my liquor with more kick.”     He placed the bottle back on the table and, with a brief head nod to Mr. Wayne, turned around.
    “I’ll be at my office if you need to speak with me,” Slam repeated as he disappeared into the kitchen.
    “If you’ll excuse me sir,” Alfred began, “I’ll be going inside to conduct a brief inventory.”
    “Whatever you think is necessary, Alfred.” Bruce picked up the folder and considered reading it at that moment. “But somehow, I think Mr. Bradley is above petty theft.”

    The larger a house is, the more alone it feels when you’re the only one home. In the case of Timothy Drake, that house was a sprawling mansion, and with his father away on business he was a teenager with the place all to himself. Sadly, Tim couldn’t take advantage of this situation. Oh, throwing a party would have certainly earned him much-needed points in school population, but the entire reason that Tim had such a lack of points was because of his responsibility.
    To pass the boredom and loneliness, Tim had considered and rejected several possibilities. Calling any of his few friends was out of the question. Once they discovered his situation, they would take it upon themselves to declare a party and bring half of Gotham City along. If this had been several months ago Tim would have called his girlfriend Ariana, but of late that relationship had changed for the worse.
    When Tim had tried to call Stephanie Brown, there had been no answer. He had figured she was out in the city as Spoiler, and for a fleet instant Tim thought about going out as Robin. The thrill of driving his Redbird through the streets would have brought a much-needed rush of adrenaline, and Tim would likely find some small-time criminals to take out his frustrations on. But that, unfortunately, was another in a long series of impossibilities.
    Following the recent death of Jean-Paul Valley, Batman had been adamant about Tim staying out of the uniform. His arguments had been sound, Tim knew. Until they had more information on the killer who wore Jean-Paul’s old Batman armor, risking an ambush was far too risky. What had really bugged Tim was that Batman wasn’t allowing him into the cave to assist in the old-fashioned detective work. Batman of all people knew about Tim’s skill as a detective, yet he didn’t want any assistance in the matter.
    So there Tim was, alone in a big empty house with nothing to do. There weren’t even any emergency news on television to tempt Tim back into uniform. There wasn’t one out-of-control fire or hostage situation in the entire city, nothing to justify going against orders.
    Upstairs in his room Tim lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Idly he wondered what Dick Grayson, free to act independently as Nightwing, was doing in Bludhaven. Tim couldn’t even leave the house, couldn’t drive into the city because he didn’t have a civilian car of his own and didn’t have the cash to hire a taxi. His father had said Tim should earn his own money, but before Tim had been too busy as Robin to get a job. This was being reconsidered, in light of Tim’s nocturnal activities being curtailed. He’d been reading the papers, kept seeing photographs of Bruce Wayne; he knew that Batman was refocusing more on his civilian life. Tim wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t take this opportunity to do the same.
    Maybe he should just call up a friend from school and declare a party…
    All thoughts of boredom and loneliness were dashed from Tim’s mind once he’d placed the telephone to his ear. No dial tone. As he placed the phone back into its cradle, Tim again lamented his lack of a cell phone, though he suspected that if he did have one the signal would be jammed. The moon and stars could be clearly seen outside. The line had been cut.
    Upstairs in his closet Tim’s gear was hidden. Among the uniform and the weapons was the transceiver through which Oracle could be reached. With swift silence Timothy Drake slinked up the stairs, scouting all the while for signs of a stalker. There was no doubt in Tim’s mind as to who had invaded. The thought of facing him alone sent a cold stab of ice through Tim’s gut, threatening to make him cry out in pain.
    The door to the closet was closed. Tim had remembered closing it earlier that day, and for a brief moment he was hopeful. If he could get through to Oracle, through her to Batman, there was a chance he would survive. Wayne Manor was so close. It wouldn’t take long for Batman or the girl to come and help.
    Tim reached for the doorknob. As his fingers brushed the cool metal, the door swung open hard. Wood slammed against the side of Tim’s head. He went down, dazed, and as clothed hands took hold of Tim he realized how stupid he’d been.
    In the movies, the victims always ran up the stairs when they should have run out the front door.
   
    Wayne Manor was so close.
    Over-head fluorescent lights flickered and hummed in the cheap Gotham City office. Moonlight filtered in through open horizontal blinds, cascading the room with strips of dull glows and gray lights. Seated at the desk in the middle of the room with his feet propped up, Slam Bradley’s face had a shadow cast over it from the rimmed hat he wore. In his hand was a cigarette with no filter, tapping against the full ashtray on the desk. Behind him, a wall clock was ticking away the seconds, its minute hand edging towards the next hour that would be one a.m.
    At the stroke of midnight, a church bell rang off in the distance. The bell tower was high up in the path between Slam’s office window and the full moon, and when the bell rang it momentarily blocked the moonlight. This coincided with a flickering of the fluorescent lights, so that Slam Bradley’s office was plunged in darkness for a split second. When that second passed, a black shape stood over the desk amidst the gray and white stripes.
    Slam Bradley peeked under the rim of his hat to see a folder on his desk that hadn’t previously been there. “I was wondering when you’d show. What, were you waiting for the dramatic entrance? Sorry, but those only work on the superstitious and cowardly sorts.”
    “Why did you give this to Wayne?” the Batman asked simply. “Why not give it to Fox?”
The cigarette was stubbed out in the ashtray. “Well, I suppose there are a few possibilities,” replied Slam. “One would be that I’m looking for a payoff.”
    “You’re not a stupid man.”
Slam chuckled. “No. But if I did want a payoff, there are some tabloids I could’ve gone to. Of course, then I would’ve been paid a visit by some scary Arkham escapees.” The dead cigarette was tossed onto the folder. “That there is the sort of information that nobody can profit from.”
    “You haven’t answered me.”
Slam Bradley pushed the rimmed hat back. Bloodshot eyes connected with white slits. “There were holes in the cover-up. Just figured you and your boss should know about them.”
    With his back to the moonlight and the fluorescent lights giving off such a dull glow, the Batman’s features were unseen behind shadows. As experienced as he was, Slam Bradley had no way of gauging the mysterious figure’s reactions.
    “How do you think Fox would react?” the Batman asked after a moment’s pause.
As a response, Slam Bradley shrugged. “Guy seems honest enough that he might have issues with it. But then I don’t see him taking something like this to the authorities either.”
    As the Batman turned to face away from Slam, his cape furled up. Air breezed across the desk, fluttering papers. “Tell him.” Those were the Batman’s parting words as he left the office in full view of Slam Bradley.

    Arthur Brown found his daughter bound in the chair, slumped forward. That had been her exact position when he had left several hours ago. In checking her arm he found a fresh new needle mark. At least those idiots knew how to follow instructions, Arthur thought to himself. Noises in the next room had told him where they were, the two men he’d brought to the house.
Even before opening the door Arthur knew what he would find. The noises told him that much, and besides Arthur had anticipated as much when he first arrived with the two men. It was why he had chosen them in particular. It was the quickest way that Arthur could get his daughter Stephanie to tell him what he needed to hear. Still, to witness such a thing with your own eyes is quite a different experience.
    Both men had their backs to Arthur Brown, the man also known as Cluemaster. One of these men appeared to be bent over something, was thrusting his hips at him. The second man was watching, with his hand pumping furiously at his crotch. Neither one seemed to have heard Arthur’s arrival.
    The gun was in his hand. Two shots and both men were down, fluids dripping out of their skulls. Lying prone on the floor with him, covered with caked blood and still breathing, was Arthur’s ex-wife Crystal. A final shot and she was no longer breathing. Arthur felt no remorse as he did this. She had served her purpose. Arthur had to watch out for himself.
    Back in the living room, Arthur Brown was undoing his daughter’s bonds. It would be better if she were conscious, he thought to himself. Screams would be very effective. But there wasn’t time to wait.
    “It won’t hurt for long,” Arthur said, as much to himself as to Stephanie. “I’ll stop as soon as he talks. You should still be alive. Maybe you’ll even recover. Someday you’ll forgive me, understand that I had to - unh!”
    The moment her hands were free, the young woman known as Spoiler went into action. There were tears in Stephanie’s eyes as she rammed her elbow against her father’s temple. Around the table she whirled, driving the heel of her fist under her father’s chin. His mouth was partially open, and Arthur bit into his tongue. Blood dribbled out of her father’s mouth as he fell unconscious to the ground, but Stephanie didn’t care. She kept kicking at his prone body, her mind full of the sounds that had come from the other room for over an hour. Eventually, breathing heavily, she stopped.
    “Your boys missed the vein, dad,” Stephanie said before spitting on the unconscious body. She was then alerted to a low groan, on the other side of the door leading into the garage. With her heart feeling as though it were lodged in her throat, Stephanie approached the door and opened it. She forced out a sigh.
    In the garage, tied up to a metal chair, was Timothy Drake. Aside from a dark bruise on the side of his head, he appeared to be relatively uninjured. Lying spread out on the floor before him, where Cluemaster had been intending to beat his own daughter until Robin broke down and revealed the Batman’s true identity, was his uniform.
    Without a thought Stephanie crossed the distance between herself and Tim. She worked at undoing his bonds, all the while apologizing for what she had done to him.
    “He’d taken me by surprise. Made me listen as he hurt mom. Oh, Tim, I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do. Even if I didn’t know who you were, he wouldn’t have believed me. I didn’t care what happened to me but he just kept hurting my mom, and it doesn’t even matter now because he….that son of a bitch…he….”
    Right there in the middle of the garage, the full weight of what had been going on all bore down on Stephanie. Before she’d been able to push it out with hope. Hope that Tim could have somehow beaten her father's ambush and save them. Then, later, Stephanie was able to focus on her anger and wait. Now the hope was gone, the anger had passed, and all that remained was pain. Just as she was finished undoing Tim Drake’s bonds, Stephanie Brown sank down to her knees and began to cry.
    The movement went unnoticed by Stephanie until the arms were placed around her shoulders. Tim Drake was awake, free, and holding Stephanie Brown as she cried. More than anything else she knew he didn’t blame her, and for that moment it almost made everything all right.
    “Where is Cluemaster?” Tim asked once Stephanie had finished crying.
    “In there.” She pointed towards the open door. “He might be dead; I was hitting him so much. I hope he’s dead.”
    “Let’s go check. Then we can call the police.”
    Along with the rest of his uniform, Tim’s utility belt was there in the garage. Tim grabbed it and snapped it around his waist. Just in case, he thought.
    “I’ll help you tie him up,” Tim told Stephanie. “Then I’ll go back home. It’d be better if I wasn’t here.”
    “Why can’t you stay?” Stephanie asked. If she were alone with her father, she was afraid of what she might do. “You came by for….for our date. Overpowered him and freed me.”
    Tim hesitated against arguing with her. He couldn’t hold Stephanie to blame for revealing his secret identity to her father, especially when he’d had her mother captive. But still, his being there would just complicate things so much more with the police. Not to mention what Bruce and his own father might say.
    Distracted by his thoughts, Tim Drake wasn’t very careful going into the other room. Arthur Brown was on his feet, the gun in his hands.
    “So my traitorous daughter freed you, eh?” Arthur cried out as he aimed to fire. “Well, I’ll deal with her just as soon as you’re - no!”
    Too late to stop the gun firing, Arthur noticed his daughter Stephanie shove Tim aside, throwing herself into the line of fire. There was the crack of a gun shot, the anguished cry of a father realizing what he’d just done, and the low groan of a young woman as she collapsed to the ground.
    “Stephanie!” Timothy yelled. Seeing Cluemaster with his gun raised, aware of what had just occurred, Tim acted instinctively. His hand going to a compartment in his utility belt, Tim withdrew a batarang and sent it hurtling towards Cluemaster. Seeing it strike Cluemaster in the head, and hearing the thud as he fell to the ground, Tim Drake knelt down and took Stephanie Brown in his arms.
    “My god, Stephanie! Are you…? Oh god, you can’t be…”
    Looking up at Tim’s anguished face, Stephanie Brown opened her mouth. A thin line of blood trickled out on one side, a clear sign of internal hemorrhaging. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, and Tim could feel her heart pounding in her chest.
    “I’m so sorry Tim,” Stephanie spoke softly. “He made me…my mother…please understand…”
    “Shhh,” Tim hushed the young woman as she shuddered in his arms. “That doesn’t matter anymore. I’m gonna get you some help. Oracle!” Tim said loudly, placing a hand to the transmitter on his belt. “Are you there? I need an ambulance. Oracle!”
    He could see the small hole in Stephanie’s chest, could feel the blood pumping inside of her. A small hissing sound, one of her lungs was punctured. Forget about bleeding to death. Stephanie could drown in her own blood if she didn’t get help in time.
    “It’s so lonely here, Tim,” Stephanie whispered. Reaching up, she caressed his face gently. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s so dark and lonely.”
    Wrapping his own hand around Stephanie's, Tim Drake stared down at Stephanie’s pale face. Pressing the other hand against her chest, he could feel sticky blood welling out. Bright red, Tim could see. No, an artery couldn’t have been hit. It couldn’t have been.
    “Barbara please hurry!” Tim yelled into the transmitter, though he knew full well that no ambulance could arrive in time. Lowering his voice, Tim spoke to Stephanie. “I’m right here, Stephanie. You’re not alone. I‘ll never leave, I promise.” Soon, though, Tim knew that they would both be alone.
    Staring up at Tim’s face, Stephanie smiled sadly. “Such pretty eyes. All those dark nights…never noticed your…eyes…”
With a final shudder, her eyes wide with fear, Stephanie Brown died in Tim Drake’s arms. He held her close, weeping openly. And twelve feet away, unnoticed by Tim, Arthur Brown lay on the ground, a batarang protruding from his neck. The man was dead.

    The moon was reflected in the lenses of Captain Cold’s goggles as he stood at the window. He could see the unmarked police car as it approached the building. Almost before he realized it, Captain Cold had the gun raised, pointed towards the speeding vehicle. Previous experience with the GCPD had been anything but pleasant. That wasn’t what his return to Gotham was about, however, so Cold lowered the gun and turned away.
    If the police knew where he was then Captain Cold was willing to wager his prey would as well. There would have been traffic on the police band, and those signals are easier to break into than the research labs at Central City.
    Below, on the street, Lieutenant Harvey Bullock was the first to get out of the police car. Soon after, Detectives Montoya and Richard Crook also exited the vehicle, from the driver and passenger side doors. Montoya stayed close to the car with the door open. In her hand was the police radio.
    “This is crazy, Harvey,” said Montoya. “I’m calling for backup.”
    “Go right ahead. I should have this putz cuffed and messing himself by the time they get here.” Bullock had drawn his revolver as he advanced into the building. Close behind him was Detective Crook.
    “Uh, sir, is it a good idea to be going in alone like this?”
    “Only if you’re not afraid of getting shot,” Bullock replied. “The guy we’re after doesn’t even use a real gun.”
    “No, uh, this gun can freeze you.”
    Bullock stopped in the doorway of the stairwell. He looked over his shoulder at Detective Crook. Before he could reply, a terrific crash could be heard from high above. A shape could be seen plummeting down, and Bullock only barely managed to step out of the stairwell in time to avoid being crushed. It was a large mass of ice that had crashed against the ground, and enough remained that Bullock could see that the mass had once been a section of stairs.
    Many floors up, beyond the sight of Lieutenant Bullock, Captain Cold ducked through the door just in time to avoid a flurry of bat-shaped shurikens. From far below, Captain Cold heard the stairs crash. Unfortunately, the shape that had been on those stairs when Cold fired hadn’t remained there.
    As he hurried down the hall, Captain Cold fired on the doorway, sealing it with a wall of ice. That wouldn’t hold it off for long, Cold suspected. He’d have to hurry fast. Pointing his freeze gun towards the floor, Captain Cold jumped just as he fired. When he landed, his weight broke through the brittle ice. As Captain Cold fell into the floor below, he could see cracks in the wall next to the doorway. Of course, he thought, cheap plaster would be easier to break through than dense ice.
    Captain Cold fell onto the floor, rolling onto his back and aiming up at the hole above. That hole was quickly sealed with ice. So far everything was going according to plan, Cold thought to himself. The prey believed that it was the predator, chasing a panicked fool. Soon it would be led right where Captain Cold wanted it.
    “Guess this means we’re taking the elevator,” Bullock told Detective Crook as he walked past.
    “But sir, that’s suicide!” Detective Crook protested. “If he knows we’re coming, and can’t take the stairs, he can just wait by the elevator! As soon as it opens, he’s got us!”
    “To think I don’t know that,” yelled Bullock as he hurried towards the building’s sole elevator. “The day some mook in a costume gets the drop on me is the day I lay off donuts for good. Wait here for backup if you want, but I’m gonna collar this bum!”
    Down one more floor Captain Cold dropped. Again he froze the floor, but instead of using his feet Cold shattered the ice with the handle of his gun, so that he didn’t drop down through the hole. Then Captain Cold quickly ducked into a nearby room, keeping the door open an inch so that he could see the hole he’d made. With his freeze gun readied, Captain Cold waited.
    The elevator doors opened with a loud ping. Lieutenant Bullock charged out, having stood right up against the doors up until they opened. He nearly stepped on a large hole in the floor, ringed with ice. In turning to avoid this hole, Bullock crashed against a partially ajar door, forcing it open the rest of the way.
    When Captain Cold heard the elevator, he relaxed slightly. His prey would not be using an elevator. That would have to be the police, and they weren’t his concern. They’d see the hole, leave the floor, and Captain Cold would keep waiting. He was completely unprepared when a heavy weight fell against the door, sending Captain Cold to the floor and his freeze gun clattering up against the wall. Though it only took a few seconds for Captain Cold to retrieve his gun and whirl about, this short time was too long.
    “Police! Freeze!” shouted Lieutenant Bullock. His gun was drawn, aimed at Captain Cold.
    Hidden in the shadows above Bullock, the Dark Knight struck. A beam of freezing cold shot out from its gauntlet, striking the lieutenant’s two hands. These hands, along with the gun they’d been holding, became immediately encased in ice. The Dark Knight dropped down to the floor, landing between a pained Bullock and a shocked Captain Cold.
    “What the hell are you doing?!” yelled Captain Cold. The sudden turn of events had taken him by surprise. This momentary disadvantage was enough for the Dark Knight to exploit. Before Captain Cold could properly raise his freeze gun, the Dark Knight had kicked him in the chest, sending Captain Cold against the wall and stunning him.
    “Ungh, lousy freak,” muttered Lieutenant Bullock with just a trace of icy chattering. “Think this’ll slow me down. I’ll beat ya to death with my hands if I have to!”
    The Dark Knight was in the process of turning as Bullock lunged forward. His ice-encased hands used as a club, Bullock struck the armored vigilante across the head. But though the Dark Knight fell back against the floor, it did so while raising the gauntlet that had previously fired the freeze beam. This was fired again, at point blank range, to strike Lieutenant Bullock in the midsection.
    “Nngghhh!” hissed Bullock as he staggered back. This was only momentary, as the lieutenant quickly caught his footing and stopped. “Gonna…hafta…do better…than that-!”
    Kkkssshhh!
    The Dark Knight’s leg kicked out, striking Lieutenant Bullock directly on the patch of ice below his solar plexus. Ice shattered, and fragments of Lieutenant Bullock’s clothes fell to the ground, along with more than an inch of his flesh.
    “Ggg-good for, for nothing…” The final blast of cold went directly to Lieutenant Bullock’s face. He fell backwards, and again the sound of ice breaking could be heard.
    The Dark Knight rose to his feet, turned, and faced a semi-conscious Captain Cold. In the near distance, the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps grew louder. The only other sound, heard by Captain Cold only, was that of the Dark Knight laughing as it disappeared out the open window.
    “Oh, I am so screwed,” muttered Captain Cold just before Detectives Montoya and Crook charged through the doorway.

        Less than an hour later, Timothy Drake was sitting on a training bench in the cave. Instead of the uniform, Timothy wore black sweats. Standing behind him was the Batman, explaining the situation. As he was doing this, Timothy Drake sat with his head down, motionless.
    “You were never there,” the Batman stated as fact. “Cluemaster killed his wife and daughter. Spoiler fought back, killed him with a batarang.”
    “I killed him,” Timothy whispered.
    “Your house was never broken into. Oracle should remove all trace of your communication to her. You never contacted her.”
    “You’ve spoken to Barbara?” Timothy asked.
    “No,” replied the Batman curtly. “I called Oracle. She hasn’t replied, but she’ll do what I asked.”
    “I called her Barbara,” Timothy continued. “Stephanie was bleeding. I, I couldn’t think straight, was screaming for help…. I screwed up.”
    There were several seconds of silence before the Batman responded. “If necessary, I’ll deal with it. Now, go home. Forget tonight ever happened. Be surprised when you hear it at school tomorrow.”
    “It’ll be on the news…”
    “Teenagers don’t watch the news in the morning. Don’t be surprised. You barely knew her. Her death shouldn’t mean anything to you.”
    Timothy whipped his head around to glare up at the Batman. His eyes were red with emotion, and tears stained his face. “How can you be so cold? She’s dead! Stephanie’s dead and her mother’s dead and her father’s dead and I killed them all!”
    The Batman’s only response to that was, “You shouldn’t have told her.”
    Before he was even aware of it, Timothy Drake was on his feet and rushing the Batman. He was only aware of this when the Batman’s hands were on him, holding him facedown on the floor gently but firmly. Fighting though he was, Timothy wasn’t able to break free. In his ear the Batman was demanding an answer.
    “Tell me again how Cluemaster died.”
    Heart pounding and limbs flailing, it took Timothy a few seconds to respond. When it did, it was in a rushed tone, barely distinguishable behind all the emotion. “He’d shot Stephanie. I grabbed a batarang and threw it before he could fire again.”
    “Did you intend to throw that type?”
    “All I had was a second,” Timothy hissed. “Yes, in that second I wanted him dead!” Immediately following that outburst, Timothy vomited. The Batman let him up, rather than allow him to choke. He released Timothy, who fell limp to his hands and knees, still vomiting. In between the gagging coughs were choked sobs.
    “Oh god. Oh god I killed him. He’s dead. I…I killed him!”
    “Thank you for admitting it,” the Batman said. “Jason wouldn’t. I let the matter drop. Later he died. You said I needed him.”
    Timothy turned to look up at the Batman, who could see that he didn’t understand. As he spoke, the Batman’s face was blank. His eyes were looking at something far away.
    “Robin. You said I needed Robin. That he was the only thing keeping me over the edge. The edge caught up with Jason.” The Batman’s eyes focused on Tim. “It just caught you.”
    The Batman turned from Timothy, and started to walk away.
    “Alfred will show you out. Don’t ever come back. You’re fired.”

Next Issue:  One year later, Barbara Gordon remembers. Nightwing learns the truth. What happens when they confront the Batman! Plus, the fate of Captain Cold!

Story © 2005 Steve Crosby and may not be reproduced without permission.