Batman: Revenge Chapters 8 - 11

BATMAN: REVENGE

Chapter 8

       

      Gradually, Bruce became aware of the rich aromas of coffee and bacon. Struggling to shake free from the cobwebs of sleep, he peered through barely opened eyes. His eyebrows arched and forehead wrinkled in surprise as he raised up on one elbow to see Vicki, literally swallowed up in his thick brown and burgundy robe. She carried a silver tray. Squinting at the dreamlike vision before him he asked, “What’s this?”
      “Breakfast,” she replied with a smile. She set the tray down on the edge of the bed. While leaning over to give him a kiss, the loosely tied robe fell open, revealing the fact that she wore nothing underneath. Casually retying the robe, unfazed by the unintended exposure, she asked, “Don’t you usually get breakfast in bed?”
    With his eyes now opened wide and a smile spreading across his lips, Bruce replied, “Well, occasionally, but I have to admit this is quite an improvement over Richards bringing it to me.”
    “Sit up,” she ordered, good-naturedly. “I brought the newspaper and we have biscuits with butter and honey, bacon, orange juice and hot coffee. Do you like cream or sugar?”
    “I drink my coffee with two sugars,” he said as he sat up, obviously enjoying this radical departure from his normal morning routine. He propped his pillow behind him against the massive headboard. “And I’ll have two of those little. plastic cream containers. Is that Hazelnut?”
    She nodded as she split a biscuit in half and applied butter. “We also have orange marmalade and blackberry jam if you don’t want honey.” She picked up a strip of bacon and dangled it in front of him. “Want a bite?” she asked.
      He opened his mouth, waiting for her to feed him. She moved the bacon closer and then pulled it back, just as Bruce tried to close his mouth on it. She giggled and he grinned. Their eyes told the story. This was the real thing.  Sure, a lot of unresolved issues remained, but they had waited a long time for this reunion and, for the moment, it fullfilled every dream.

~      ~      ~

      In another part of town, on the Sixth floor of the newly reconstructed Axis Chemicals building, the young CEO, Harley Quinn, finished her morning workout by pounding the heavy bag. She whirled about and delivered a wicked kick as the door to her personal gym opened.
      A muscular young man in his early thirties with a bandaged right hand and a blunt nose that appeared to have been broken more than a few times looked in and said, “Time's wasting, Harley. You have to be downtown in 30 minutes. You have a meeting scheduled with the Chamber of Commerce Business Development Committee.”
    Harley stopped and shouted, “It’s my money they want, Junior. I can be as late as I want to be. If we tell them to schedule us for another day, they will. So, relax.” 
    “Make it light on yourself, Harley,” the big guy said, “but put on some makeup to hide that shiner before you go out. By the way, Sammy's in room 1723 at Gotham Memorial. The doc says he should be out, tomorrow. It’s just a couple of cracked ribs and a broken finger. He was lucky if you ask me.”
    “Carl Grissom, Junior, you are such an asshole,” Harley yelled, “Get the hell out of here!”
    He started to leave the room, but before he closed the door behind him he leaned back in and said, “And you, Harley, are an idiot. I still can’t believe you let Sammy mess things up last night. I ought to blacken that other eye!” With that he slammed the door, leaving Harley seething with rage. With all of her strength she thrust one final kick into the heavy bag, leaving the support chain jangling as the bag jerked about and swung like an executed prisoner on the end of a rope. 
    Carl Grissom, Jr. was the son and namesake of the late crime boss who, 14 years earlier, died at the hands of The Joker. The pallid clown with the frozen smile took over the Grissom family businesses through a variety of legal and not so legal maneuvers, but hadn’t been able to wrestle the majority of the Grissom family fortune away from Carl Jr., who had barely turned 20 at the time of his father’s death. After the demise of The Joker, in an attempt to further expand his own business endeavors in Gotham City, and to return the Grissom name to its proper place in society, Junior initiated an on-again off-again, frequently tempestuous relationship with Harley.
      Just as Harley graduated from Vassar at the top of her class with a business management degree, Junior had graduated with honors and a business degree from Harvard. Junior rose to the position of CEO at Shrek industries, once owned and operated by the notorious underground financier and womanizer, Max Shrek. He loved the fact that The Joker’s money, much of which had been his Dad’s, now worked for him. Junior was fond of saying, “Who says there’s no such thing as justice in this country?”
        The combined financial backing of  Quinn and Shrek industries bolstered the finances of Lockheed Electric, which led indirectly to the development of the F-27 Intimidator. The acquisition of the F-27 access codes to the controls and its electronic plasma weaponry and sonic defense shields, Wayne Enterprises inventions, was a bi-product of the power wielded by Quinn and Grissom.

~      ~      ~

 
      As Tim Bagwell escorted Dr. Chase Meridian to the elevators that would lead to the fourth floor of the Arkham Asylum, he was still consumed with the memory of the kiss he was sure she had blown to him. As they stepped into the elevator and the doors closed, offering just the privacy he needed, he had finally worked his courage up to the point of being able to ask the Doctor out on a date. 
      “So, Dr. Meridian,” he began, “you’re here bright and early this morning. We don’t usually see you until around 2 P.M. at the earliest. Doing some extra work, or is it that you just couldn’t stay away from me any longer?” He smiled his best, “I’m your man” smile and continued, although the blank expression on her face wasn’t one that would indicate she was spellbound by his charm. “Doc, we’ve certainly been seeing an awful lot of each other here, but I thought it would be nice if we took it outside the office, maybe stepped things up a notch, you know, and saw each other maybe for dinner. What do you think?”
      The elevator doors opened and Tim exited, holding one side of the elevator doors open so they would not close before Dr. Meridian could step out. She thanked Tim for the courtesy and walked past him down the hall at a fast pace, heels clicking on the faded, but clean, linoleum floor. She had not responded to Tim’s dinner invitation and was looking for a nice way to say no.
    Tim spoke up again, as they approached the visitor’s area, “Quite a coincidence that I was on the morning shift today, on the one day you came in early. So, how about it? We could hit the Olive Garden and then do a movie. You do like Italian, don’t you?”
    Still searching for a graceful way to answer, Chase stalled, and then the light went on, as they say. The right falsehood for the occasion popped into her head. “Tim, I’m really flattered by your interest, but I'm involved with someone at this time and I’m just not the kind of girl to go behind someone’s back. You can understand that, can’t you?” Chase opened the visitors’ door and went in, followed closely by Tim.
    Tim was disappointed to say the least. “Gee, Dr. Meridian, with the late hours you usually put in, and after the other night, I wouldn’t have thought you were in a relationship. But sure, I understand. You let me know if that other guy lets you down, okay? My invitation stands whenever you‘re ready.”
    Tired of Tim’s pathetic advances, Chase had no idea what he meant when he referred to “the other night.” She was ready to get to work so she decided to cut the conversation short and simply asked, “Tim, will you tell the guards to get Edward for me, please?”
    “Okay,” Tim responded, sounding seriously downhearted. “We’ll have him out in just a minute.”
      Chase crossed her arms and tapped her foot as she waited. Olive Garden, she thought, and a movie? Oh, please, I can see it now. Sure Tim, I‘ll go out with you instead of Bruce Wayne. Right, like I‘ve always preferred the Olive Garden to Dimaggio‘s. I hope Bruce understood my leaving last night, too much chaos, too many people. And what was Vicki Vale doing there? Hmmm.
    The guards knocked on the door that separated the visitors’ side from the inmates’. Chase looked up and saw Edward seated on the other side, looking through the Plexiglas window with a curious look on his face. Chase opened the door and went in to the inmates’ area. She sat down at the opposite end of the table and got right to the point. “Do you know who I am?”
    “Of course.” Edward responded, his tone cheerful and upbeat. “You are Dr. Chase Meridian. Criminal Psychologist extraordinaire. You are the one true shining light in this dark tunnel of mental illness. You are my savior...”
    Chase clicked her red fingernails on the table, impatiently.
    With a pained expression on his face Edward inquired, “Am I going a bit overboard, belaboring the point, pontificating needlessly? Illuminating, where no illumination is — ”
    Chase interrupted with her second question. “Do you know who you are?”
    “Silly girl, do I know who I am? What a question.” Edward waived his hand dismissively to let the Doctor know such elementary questions shouldn’t be necessary. "Who am I, indeed? I’m crushed that you should have to ask. I’m wounded - skewered by your cruel daggers. In the immortal words of the inimitable Dr. Smith on Lost in Space, 'Oh the pain, Will Robinson, the pain!' During the crash of the Hindenburg dirigible the distraught announcer exclaimed,'Oh, the Humanity,' and at this very moment I echo his sentiments. To think that we have come so far, together, only to ...”
    The fingernails were clicking again.
    “Oh, dear,” Edward said. “Rambling again, am I?” He forced a large, apologetic smile and nervously wrung his hands. 
    Chase nodded, breathed a heavy sigh, and repeated her question. “Do you know who you are?”
    Edward squinted and looked up as if trying to see something that was unclear. He grimaced and put his hands on either side of his head like the hear-no-evil monkey, he rocked from side to side, then he straightened up. A look of relief and clarity dawned on his face. “Yes, I know who I am, Dr. Meridian. I’m Batward Nygman... Err," he shook his head. "Edman Batma, no wait, I’m the Rid...no, I’m not. Yes, I am. The Rid...No, I, I...”
      The discomfort registering on his face grew. He clasped his hands tightly on the table. He leaned forward and strained, making the kind of grunting noises you might hear coming from a public bathroom stall. His mouth opened with his jaw jutting forward and lips pulled back. The tendons and veins in his neck bulged. Sweat broke out on his forehead and cascaded down his face.
      Edward's right and left legs began to tremble and then to bounce up and down, culminating in a furious stomping of both feet. The guards and Dr. Meridian stood ready to restrain and sedate the unstable patient. The inner torment escalated. Tears began to flow freely from his eyes. When it appeared as if he could take no more and seemed overwhelmed by some kind of emotional crisis, the battle inside his mind appeared to subside.
      His taut muscles relaxed. He hung his head, taking deep recuperative breaths. When he looked up, Edward sighed heavily, wiped the hair and tears out of his eyes and smiled.
      He straightened up in his chair again, looked Dr. Meridian straight in the eye and declared, “I’m Edward Nygma. That’s who I am. Edward Nygma.” He said it as if he were answering the final question on “Who wants to be a Millionaire.” He didn’t need a lifeline this time. No fifty, fifty. No help from the audience. He was sure - final answer. He smiled the confidant, proud smile of a man who struggled against great odds and won the prize. He appeared quite pleased with his accomplishment.
    Dr. Meridian felt enormous relief. She clapped her hands in delight. This was a huge breakthrough. The three attending guards, including Tim, did likewise. Edward had been as loony as could be, running around in his pitiful, self-made Batman outfit, but he had been relatively docile for the better part of his time at Arkham Asylum. Now, he needed to start remembering and dealing with his life that was, and perhaps the life that once again could be.     
      Would he be able to handle the research task Batman had in mind for him? Chase still felt it unlikely.
    “Edward, I am so proud of you. We all are so very proud of you,” Dr Meridian said. With genuine concern she asked, “Would you like to rest now? That was quite an effort on your part.”
    Edward looked at her and calmly said, “I just remembered my name, Doctor, it's not like I just ran a marathon. This is at best, a miniscule breakthrough. I mean, it’s not like I just remembered that I used to be the top research and development man at the Wayne foundation,” he gasped. “Or that I was the main contributors to the development of Electronic Plasma weaponry,” he gasped again, more dramatically and looked around, blinking. “And I certainly didn’t think to mention the Sonic Shield defense systems were my brainchild!” His eyes grew wider with each revelation and his voice rose in volume as his memories came flooding back. “Wow, maybe this is a big breakthrough after all,” he cried! “Holy Toledo!”
    Talk about a jaw dropper! Chase was flabbergasted! Where did all that come from? How did it happen? She looked wide-eyed at Edward with a sense of awe. She had never witnessed such tremendous, spontaneous progress in a patient who had regressed so deeply into a world of denial. This would make the medical journals, for sure! But how long would it last?
      Was this just a momentary glimpse at the real world, or did it represent a real, solid, first step on the road to recovery? The feeling of triumph, the satisfaction of accomplishment both for her patient and for herself, along with the myriad of questions in her racing mind came to a screeching halt, as Edward, now sitting calmly with his hands again clasped in front of him on top of the table, made one simple inquiry.
    “Dr. Meridian,” Edward asked, his gaze fixed upon Chase with the inquisitive, wide-eyed innocence of a small child, “Who is the Riddler?”

BATMAN: REVENGE

CHAPTER 9

   

        Batman waited patiently for Dr. Melvin Slaughter in the visitors' area of the county morgue, where a family had gathered to identify the remains of a 17 year old boy named Pedro Gotay, killed in a one-car traffic accident the night before. When the boy had not come home by midnight the parents began to worry. By two in the morning they had become frantic and had begun calling the boy‘s closest friends. His friends had all arrived home safely and had no idea where Pedro could be.
        The boy’s father, Rodrigo, had gone out at three, driving through the areas of town he thought his son might visit, in hopes of seeing his yellow Honda Civic. They had received a call from the Highway Patrol at 7 A.M. telling them that a boy driving a yellow Honda and carrying their son’s driver’s license, had been killed and that a relative needed to come identify the remains to verify whether it was Pedro.   
        The car had been spotted in a ditch, beside a two-lane country road about 12 miles Southwest of  the Gotham City limits. It had evidently been traveling at a high rate of speed when the driver lost control on the soft shoulder of the road and hit a telephone pole. Had the driver been wearing a seat belt he might have survived. But his chest had been crushed as he was thrown forward, into the steering wheel and windshield.
        The boy’s sister attempted, unsuccessfully, to console the mother, who blamed herself for allowing him to attend a party and stay out so late without  getting to know the parents of the girl who was throwing the affair. Rodrigo Gotay turned and looked at Batman, his eyes were red rimmed from crying for his son, and from lack of sleep. “Why does this happen to us, Batman? I work hard. I try to raise my children right.” Batman put out his hand and patted Rodrigo’s shoulder. 
    A young lady in a white lab coat walked up before Batman could say anything. She asked Mr. Gotay to look through the large window and see if he could identify the body they were now bringing out. On the other side of the window Dr. Slaughter came into view. He pushed the gurney with the sheet covered corpse near the window and then pulled the sheet back.  Mr. Gotay put his trembling hands up to his face. “It’s him,” he said as his wife began to cry again.
    Not much later, as Dr. Slaughter sat in his office with Batman, he apologized for keeping the caped crusader waiting. Batman asked him, “How can you stand doing that? You must have done it a thousand times over the years.”
    Dr. Slaughter nodded, “I can’t stand doing it; Never have been able to. But it has to be done and the grieving families need someone strong on the other side of that window instead of an emotional wreck adding to their misery. I usually don’t have to do that part anymore, but we had one of our people call in today and another one is on vacation. Now, let’s get to the reason for your visit.” He reached down to the side of his desk and pulled up a small ice chest marked, “Tissue Samples. Must be kept refrigerated.” He said that he had placed three samples in the cooler, which had been cut from the Joker’s body one day after his death.
    “I believe you will find that there has been no cellular decay, while at the same time you will not find what I would consider to be normal cellular activity.”
    “Have you any clues as to what may have caused this?” asked Batman.
    “Clues, yes. Answers, no,” replied Dr. Slaughter, shaking his head as if still amazed, even after all these years. “You see, the heavy concentration of chemical preservatives that he absorbed when he fell into that overspill reservoir at Axis Chemicals should have killed him. Come to think of it, it did, but then again, it didn’t. It preserved him. Not alive, but unable to decay. A live mummification process was somehow achieved. New cells do not grow. But the old cells can’t deteriorate. The old cells seem to repair themselves if injured, but not by replacing damaged cells with new ones. It’s like they just morph back into their original shape and condition. I can’t explain it better than that. I submitted samples to John Hopkins for testing, but they promptly denied ever receiving those samples when I called them a month later to check on their progress. Next, I tried the Mayo clinic and the same thing happened.  Several government agencies showed up shortly thereafter, checking me out. The CIA, The Center for Disease Control, The FBI, and several others, whose names I was never given.”
    A thought began to form in Batman‘s head, as he asked, “You say new cells don’t take the place of damaged ones? When you performed your autopsy, what did you do with the brain? And did you happen to hear anything from the mortician, did he notice anything unusual?”
    “To be honest, Batman, I only performed a partial autopsy. Cause of death was abundantly clear. I never removed the brain, but the trauma was incredible and the skull was virtually flattened. I never heard anything back from the mortician at Raven mortuary, but I know they wasted no time in getting him in the ground. I believe he was buried three days after he fell.”
    “Doctor,” Batman asked one last question, feeling uncomfortable as to what the answer might be, “would you consider it possible that the cells of the Joker, throughout his entire body, could have morphed back to the condition they were in prior to the fall?” 
    “Oh heavens, no,” replied Dr. Slaughter without hesitation. “Too much damage, just far, far too much damage.  Even if his cells were in the process of morphing, it would have taken years for his body to return to its previous condition. If you saw him as I did when I examined him, you'd understand. He was no more than five inches thick, Batman. And, when the mortician did his job, the removal of organs and all, well, that takes care of that. When organs are removed, no amount of cellular morphing can fix that.”
    Batman had wanted to hear exactly that, but he wouldn’t rest easy until he spoke to the mortician. Actually, he wouldn’t rest easy until he saw The Joker’s dead body and witnessed its return to the grave.
      Batman stood and thanked Dr. Slaughter for the tissue samples and his time. Before he turned to leave he added, “Gotham City has been fortunate to have a man of your caliber in this position for so many years. I’ll let you know, of course, if I detect anything beyond what you've mentioned concerning these samples.”
    He headed out the door and back to the Batmobile. I have to find that mortician, he thought. Back in the Batmobile, he buckled his seat belt and immediately phoned Raven Mortuary.
    “Raven Mortuary, how may we be of service?”
      Batman asked to speak to the owner and was told to “Hold, please.”           
      Moments later a new voice with a hint of a Germanic accent introduced himself as Bruno Raven and asked, “To  whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
    “Mr. Raven, I’m calling concerning a current police investigation that requires some information you may have in your records. This is Batman. I need to know if you have the records on the embalming and burial of Jack Napier, in early November of 1989. Also I need to know if the person that prepared the body for burial is still working for you. If not, could you tell me where I might find him?”
    Bruno Raven paused on the other end and then answered with, “This is quite a Coincidence, Batman.”
    Batman asked, “A Coincidence, Mr. Raven, how so?”
    “Vladimir Kolasinski was the man who prepared the body of Jack Napier, whom I believe you also referred to as The Joker. Vladimir was found dead, last night. I was told he had died in his car of carbon monoxide poisoning. It seems to have been a suicide.”
    “A suicide?” Batman repeated. “Had he been in poor health, or did he seem to be under a great deal of stress?”
    “No.” Bruno Raven said, “He was healthy like a horse. In his middle fifties. Vladimir was not the kind of man who ever showed any concern about anything. He was what you would call ‘easy going’. He used to say, "Who is cooler, Vladimir or the corpse?" He was a funny one, sometimes, that guy.”
    “Was he married?” Batman asked.
    “No, he was never involved with a woman as far as I know,” Raven shook his head. “I’m not sure, but I think maybe he was not a man who liked women, if you know what I mean. I never knew of him to say he had a date with a pretty girlfriend or anything like that.”
    Batman nodded and said, “Mr. Raven, I need to see the records concerning the embalming of Jack Napier. It’s a very important matter. I’m on my way over there now. Could you show me those records?”

~~~

   
      When he arrived Batman was escorted to a room that contained a number of large filing cabinets. Each drawer was labeled with a year. Bruno Raven opened the one marked 1989 and looked for the November files. After mumbling for a few moments he exclaimed, “The November file seems to be missing.” He opened the October file and shook his head after flipping through the names. “No, there is no Jack Napier listed here. He must have been in the missing November file.”
    Batman reached to his belt and grasped his cell phone. He dialed Dr. Melvin Slaughter, who’s number he had entered on his quick dial list right after visiting the
Doctor. The Doctor had his phone turned off and the voice mail feature answered. Batman left a detailed message asking the Doctor to check very closely for possible signs of foul play in the case of Vladimir Kolasinski. He ended his message by saying, “I have a strong feeling Mr. Kolasinski’s death was not a suicide.”

      Vicki Vale snapped another picture from a different angle of the cemetery crime scene. She had taken two rolls of film so far, from different distances and different directions, some, with the camera pointed away from, and some looking towards the sun. She used various light filters and shutter speeds until she was satisfied that she had enough material to work with. Her next stop was the newly rebuilt Axis Chemicals building. She wondered what the new building looked like when pictorially compared to the old one where the Joker had fallen into the vat of chemicals and figured it would be of interest to readers of whichever publication bid highest for her photographs. She had spoken to the Axis Chemicals, public relations department, in hopes of taking a tour of the new facility and snapping a large number of interior photos. She had been informed that her tour would be conducted by none other than the company’s dynamic CEO, Harlance Quinzel, who preferred to be called Harley Quinn. Plans had been made for them to have lunch in the workplace cafeteria, which was open to the public as well as employees and had gained an excellent reputation with Gothamites for serving gourmet cuisine at reasonable prices. Vicki briefly entertained the idea of inviting Knox, thinking he might wish to be there as well to ask questions of the young executive. His words, her pictures, it had been Pulitzer Prize winning stuff once before, but she decided against that, figuring he had already done his fair share of probing when it came to Harley Quinn.

    Police Commissioner Gordon began his 10 A.M. press conference by saying that several arrests had been made in the past 24 hours, but that although one of  the crimes had been committed by hoodlums wearing white and green painted faces, they were merely trying to cash in on the public’s fear of the reunion of The Joker’s gang.  He pointed out that the only thing two of the thugs had cashed in was their chips, as they were now in the county morgue, and the third mugger was in county jail awaiting arraignment for armed robbery and assault.
      He reminded the press that other “copy cat” criminals were expected to attempt crimes dressed in a way that would make people believe they were working with The Joker. “With this in mind,” the commissioner continued, “we must urge the citizens of Gotham City to use good sense and exercise caution until the body of Jack Napier is found and placed back in the ground. There is no reason to panic. For all we know this may be a prank that will play itself out on Halloween at some college fraternity party.”

    Carl Grissom, Jr. watched the press conference on the 70-inch, flat panel, plasma TV that hung on a wall in his office at Shrek industries. He was on the phone to Bruce Segelski, the cab driver for “Happy Cab”. “So, she went back to Wayne Manor last night, huh? She looked pretty shook up? No kidding? Dripping wet? It was still laughing? That’s great! Oh, wait; Commissioner Gordon still thinks it’s a prank by some college kids. Did you ever go to college, Bruce? How about Sammy and Lawrence, you think they’re college grads? Didn’t think so. Anyway, don’t forget to pick up Sammy at the hospital. Yeah, that’s right, then be sure to take him to the drug store to get his prescription filled. How’s it feel to be out, man? Pretty good, huh?” He paused a moment, listening, and then closed the conversation by saying, “All right. See you later.” 
      The press conference was just wrapping up on the TV. “Well, I gotta hand it to the commissioner,” Grissom said to himself, “he’s right about this whole thing playing itself out on Halloween. Too bad he won’t have a chance to see it happen.”

~      ~      ~

   
      At the Gotham Globe, as usual, Alexander Knox was up to his ass in alligators. “Who do we have at that press conference?” he demanded from someone on the phone. He groaned as he vented, “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he can’t write, he can’t ask questions, he can’t spell and he can’t think. Who hired him anyway? Who? I did? Are you sure? Well then, he may work out. Get him some help, he must have potential, but he needs someone to be his mentor. You‘re elected.” Knox hung up, reached for a cigar, clipped it and lit up as he leaned back in his chair. “I knew I liked that boy.”
      His phone rang and he picked it up, answering with an irritated, obnoxious sounding, “Whaaat?” After a pause, he seemed more interested, asking, “Where?” Next came a very excited, “When?”
      He jumped up, and literally sprinted through his door to the elevator. On the way to the elevator he shouted, “Get some photographers to the docking bay, on the double!” In rapid succession he mashed the down button ten times and cursed the elevator for arriving so slowly. He virtually leaped into the elevator, forgetting he still carried the cigar that he had lit in his office.                       
      Frantically he hit the button for the basement. Two advertising executives gave him dirty looks, waving their hands in front of their faces to keep the smoke away until they got off at the next stop. Starting at the seventh floor, the elevator stopped 5 times on the way down. With each stop Knox uttered a new expletive. Various employees who had made the mistake of being on the elevator at that time noted that Knox’s face was a shade redder than usual and he was more agitated than usual, if such a thing were possible. As he reached the basement he burst from the elevator, coming close to running over two guys who loaded papers onto the delivery trucks.
    “Where is it?” he gasped, looking around wildly.
    The two loading-dock workers looked completely befuddled by the question. “Where is what?” one of them asked.
    “The Joker’s body, you idiots. The Joker’s body! They just delivered it here! Someone just called me, and told me that...oh, shit,” The realization that someone had played a trick on him had sunk in. Rather than lose all dignity he gathered up his wits and his ego and shouted, “Okay, what’s going on? Who’s screwing around here? Everybody get back to work or get fired, take your pick! If anybody here doesn’t look busy then they’re gone, understand?” He spied one young man leaning up against a wall, looking not the least bit interested, and shouted at him, “Hey, You!” With his arm fully extended in front of him he pointed vigorously as he approached. “How much do you make per week?” he demanded.
    “Who me?” the person in question asked, surprise registering on his face.
    “That’s right,” Knox said, shaking his head with an attitude and continuing to point. “How much do you make per week?”
    “About five hundred,” the confused fellow answered, still leaning against the wall.
    Knox reached into his back pocket and pulled his wallet out. He extracted four, one hundred dollar bills, approached the young man and handed him the money. “Today is Tuesday,” Knox said, “so you still had four hundred bucks to earn this week. But I can’t stand the sight of your do nothing ass leaning against that wall, so I say take the rest of the week off, you lazy son-of-a-bitch, you’re fired! Don’t ever let me catch you around here again, you understand?”
    The young man seemed utterly baffled but not very upset. Then the look of confusion morphed into a goofy grin as he stuffed the money in his pants pocket, walked right past Knox, jumped off the loading dock and headed down the street, whistling as he went. Satisfied that he had salvaged at least a portion of his dignity Knox watched as the vanquished slacker disappeared, then turned and bellowed, “The same thing goes for anyone else I catch not working today.” He walked over to the two guys he had almost run down earlier, who were doing their best to look busy. “Hey, who was that guy?” Knox asked.
    One of the workers seemed too intimidated to answer, but the other replied, “I don’t know, he didn’t work here.”
      Laughter erupted as the elevator doors closed, and Knox, more red faced than ever, headed back up to his office to sulk. He didn’t answer any calls the rest of the day.
      The loading dock story made it throughout the company, then throughout Gotham City, and shortly thereafter with the help of the internet, throughout the country, the world, and even into a few books, although as the story was passed around, the name of the hot-headed boss was soon forgotten.

BATMAN: REVENGE

Chapter 10

   
    “Now tell the truth Vicki,” Harley Quinn asked. “Wasn’t that the best salad you’ve ever had from a cafeteria?”
    Vicki said, “I have to admit it, Harley. It lived up to everything the food critics had said, and then some. Four stars, I’d say. In fact, everything I‘ve seen today is four-star, or better. I‘m very impressed.”
    Vicki snapped another picture of a huge industrial vat, which held thousands of gallons of chemicals designed to act as a preservative coating for outdoor sporting goods: basketball nets, tents, volleyball and badminton nets, sleeping bags, canvass chairs and many more items that would deteriorate due to sun, heat and humidity.
      Harley Quinn smiled and waived her hand at the restricted area behind huge Plexiglas windows  where the chemicals were mixed. “Because of the protective coating these chemicals provide, automobile interiors will look brand new for ten years or more. Rubber hoses, when treated by Axis Rubber Long Life, will last 5 to 10 times longer than hoses that aren’t treated with our chemicals. We’re really excited about the preliminary testing we’ve done with Firestone tires. Indications are, with the help of Axis Long Life chemicals,  they will be able to produce a 250,000 mile, self sealing tire. I’d have to get security clearance for you if you want to take pictures behind the glass. We could get you a mask and a hard hat if you like, but it would be a shame to mess up your hair and makeup, wouldn’t it?”
    As she took pictures of the workers in the mixing area, for a split second Vicki thought she saw, through the camera view finder, a worker with a white face and green hair. She figured it had to have been some kind of glare as she shot through the glass. She looked up from her camera, but couldn’t see anyone with those unique characteristics. Are my eyes and mind playing tricks on me? she wondered. As she shrugged off the unsettling, but unconfirmed apparition, she asked, “Harley, how can these chemicals make things last so long?”
      Harley replied, “When the cells of your average product are melted, scraped, or punctured, they are usually ruined. Axis Long Life gives cells the ability to retain or regain their original structure after damage has occurred. It is a true scientific breakthrough which will enrich the lives of almost every person on earth. We are just
beginning to look into the possible implications in the fields of health care and medicine.”
    Vicki asked, “Are any of these products currently being sold to the public? And if so, where can they be purchased?”
    Harley sighed and put her hands on her hips, “You better talk to Uncle Sam about that. We are being held back on releasing our new products pending government testing on the safety of our chemicals. When sprayed or wiped onto cloth or metal, the residual droplets left on a subject’s body, or in the air, can be inhaled or could be ingested.”
    “What about your older products that are now available and in use. Tell me about those,” Vicki requested.
    “Axis Chemicals has offered everything from leather, rubber and vinyl conditioners and revitalizers, to cereal crunch enhancers and medicine encapsulaters which keep the lining of the stomach from being irritated. Since reopening we have built Axis into a 300 million dollar a year business. But as soon as the government gives its approval to our Long Life line we anticipate we will be doing well over 3 billion yearly. And that is a very conservative estimate!”
    Vicki drew in a deep breath and whistled. “That’s got to mean your stockholders and investors are very happy, I would say.”
    Our stock has risen from nine dollars per share, six years ago, to seventy-six dollars per share on today’s market. I would think, once the government finishes it’s testing and approves our Long Life products, we’ll see our stock rise to the mid two-hundreds in no time at all. Better call your broker, Vicki. Don’t get left out! This is the next Microsoft!”
    Vicki extended her hand and thanked Harley for the lunch, personalized tour and the trading tips. Her head was swimming with information that was exciting and at the same time somewhat suspicious. How could anything be that good, she wondered? This was indeed either the next Microsoft or the next Enron. And then there was that vision in her mind of that worker with the white face and green hair. That was downright spooky. She wondered if that face might show up in one of the many pictures she had taken?

~      ~      ~

    Bruce Wayne walked into the channel 6 studios and asked the receptionist if she would contact  Jerry Fontaine, the public affairs director, to let him know that he was here. Bruce was scheduled to do a couple of public service announcements for the State Highway Department concerning safe driving on Halloween.
      Each year it seemed, there were always sad stories of little “trick or treaters” running out from between cars and being hit by a driver that had looked away from the road only for a moment. Bruce hoped that his 30 second spots might make at least one person drive more carefully through neighborhoods filled with happy children carrying sacks of candy this coming Friday.  He was also scheduled to do an announcement that Gotham Memorial is once again x-raying candy this year to be sure of its safety. He especially looked forward to doing that one. He would be dressed up as Beetlegeuse, and it looked like it might be a lot of fun.
      While he waited, Bruce contemplated the fact that as he had aged he had become more accessible to the public through commercials like these and his charity events, which had over the years helped to change his image as perceived by his fellow Gothamites from one of a mysterious, perhaps evil, recluse, to almost that of a benevolent father figure. Ever since he had seen those Wolicek girls he had begun to regret not having any of his own. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if he and Vicki… but he guessed it was far too late for those kind of thoughts... or was it?
    Jerry Fontaine only kept Bruce waiting a few minutes before he showed up with a big California grin and extended a hand to shake weighed down by monstrous gold rings and bracelets. “How’ve ya been doing Bruce?” Jerry asked. “You been playing any golf, or out boating on the lake? Looks like you’ve been getting out, judging by the tan your sporting. Why, you’re the picture of health! Jerry slapped Bruce on the back repeatedly, to the point of become somewhat annoying and massaged his shoulder as he repeated his claim, "Look at him Daisy, is he the picture of  health, or what?”
    Daisy was the receptionist. She was a dead ringer for Audrey, in “Little Shop of Horrors,” wearing a provocatively low cut blouse and sporting an unmistakable Bronx accent. She agreed with Jerry’s assessment of Bruce being the picture of health. “Yeah,” she said, while enthusiastically chewing a piece of gum, “ain’t he just!” She batted her long, fake eyelashes at him and smiled the kind of smile that meant, well, Bruce didn‘t want to speculate on what it might mean.
    As they walked briskly back to the dressing room area, Bruce noticed a large plaque on the wall that listed channel 6 as being owned and operated by Shrek Communications. Bruce asked Jerry, “When did Shrek buy you guys?”
    “About a year ago,” came the reply, “They have deep pockets.”
      Something told Bruce he should check on how far the Shrek industries influence had grown and how they were going about their business these days. Although Max wasn’t running the show anymore, they obviously were in an aggressive acquisition mode. The momentary thought of Max Shrek led to the memory of Selena Kyle, who became Catwoman when she was pushed through a window and fell from one of the upper floors of the downtown Shrek building. It had been years since he had seen her, yet he knew she was still out there somewhere. He remembered dancing with her years earlier and finding her to be extremely intelligent and attractive.
    “As a matter of fact,” Bruce reminisced, “we did far more than just dance; she was downright seductive.” He shook his head and did his best to rid himself of that remembrance. “I don’t need Selena or Chase,” he thought. “I have Vicki and I can’t let her go this time. I’ll never get her back if I do, and I’m not getting any younger.”
    “Right this way, Bruce.” Jerry Fontaine swung the dressing room door open and ushered Bruce in. A State Highway Patrolman sat helplessly, as an elderly, red haired lady with a name tag that introduced her as Flo, fussed over him in front of one of the three mirrors that were outlined with lights to aid in makeup application. The look of determined resignation on his face was either pitiable or comical, Bruce wasn‘t sure which. “Let me have your jacket, Bruce,” Jerry asked, “so that we don’t get makeup on it.”
      Bruce slipped out of his classic navy blue blazer and handed it to Jerry, who in turn hung it up on a coat tree in the corner of the room. While the elderly, red-haired lady continued to labor over the patrolman, a pretty young brunette with a name tag that said Jeanette, walked up to Bruce and said she would be assisting with the application of his makeup.
      The patrolman looked at her, then at Bruce, and shrugged. Jerry turned to leave, and told them both that they were in good hands and to help themselves to the fresh fruit, ham and cheese croissants, sweet rolls or coffee that were neatly arranged on a table near the coat tree. He said the producer would be in shortly to go over everything with them.
      Bruce leaned back in the makeup chair, closed his eyes, and relaxed as Jeanette began to work on him. He had done many public service announcements in the past, so the anxiety of stage fright no longer tore him apart as it had in his younger days.
    “I hear you’re going to be playing Beetlegeuse after we do the spots with the patrolman,” Jeanette said. “I’m looking forward to doing your makeup for that.”

~      ~      ~

   
      Standing alone in the center of her spacious office, Harley Quinn shouted into the phone, “It’s too soon. It’s too dangerous! You can’t expose yourself yet! You’re going to blow it! What if Gordon brings some of his police buddies home with him? Oh, and the neighbors are just going to decide he’s watching an action DVD on his big screen when they hear the shooting?”
      She listened for a moment and replied, “I know you aren’t planning to shoot him, but if he has friends with him, I’m willing to bet they’ll have guns! Why can’t you just wait until the Wayne benefit? Everything is going so smoothly! Okay, well, almost everything. That was Sammy’s fault. No, I know I’m in charge when you aren‘t here. Yes, I still believe in the plan. Yes, I know it’s your plan. Well, you can’t get revenge if you’re caught tonight, can you? At least think about that, will you? What do you mean you‘ve already thought of that? What do you mean watch the 6 o‘clock news?” She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it.  With a bewildered look on her face she said, “He hung up.”

~      ~      ~

    At 4:30 P.M. bedlam erupted at Police headquarters, the Gotham Globe and all of the local TV stations including Channel 6. Each had received a call telling them where the body of the Joker could be found. Alexander Knox was probably the only person in town who didn’t believe the report. Justin Henderson, one of his top reporters, burst into his office and said, “The Joker’s body is supposed to be in an open grave in the new cemetery near Greatland subdivision. I’m headed out there right now! I also called Vicki Vale and let her know.”
    Knox looked up from his desk without the slightest hint of excitement. He shook his head and said, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” 
    Henderson looked at Knox with a puzzled expression, trying to make sense of what he had just heard. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asked. Then he figured he was in too much of a hurry to wait for an explanation and said “Oh, never mind,” and was gone.   
    At Channel 6, Bruce had just finished his public service announcement reminding Moms and Dads that Gotham General and Gotham Memorial Hospital was going to be doing free x-rays of candy again this Halloween in order to help make the day a little safer for Gotham’s little ghouls and goblins. Bruce was still in his Beetlegeuse outfit and makeup when the shouting began.
    “They’ve found him! They have the Joker’s body,” said the voice of a young man running through the studio towards the back exit, which led out to where the news department’s cars were parked. He was followed closely, with a great deal of noise by as many as 25 other station employees, including cameramen, sound technicians, reporters, producers, directors and those that just wanted to go along to see the spectacle.
    Bruce mused that it resembled the start of the Oklahoma Gold Rush, and then realized he had to get out of his Beetlegeuse makeup, fast! His cell phone began ringing in his blazer on the coat tree. He started to reach for it and then drew his white, makeup coated, hand back, in fear of leaving nasty white prints on his blazer. Jeanette came running up at that point and said, “I’ll get it for you Bruce,” she reached into his jacket and found the phone, flipped it open and handed it to Bruce.
    “Hello,” Bruce answered. On the other end Commissioner Gordon said, “Batman? Thank goodness! We just got an anonymous call saying that the Joker’s body has been found in an open grave at the new cemetery near Greatland subdivision. I’m on my way there now and I’m guessing half of Gotham City is on their way as well.”
    “I think you’re right about that Commissioner,” Bruce replied.  Jeanette’s eyes got big as she listened and realized Bruce was speaking to the head of Gotham’s police force. When Bruce hung up she asked him, “Why was the Commissioner calling you, Bruce?”
    Bruce answered, saying, “He’s an old friend of mine, calling as a courtesy to keep me informed. Jack Napier, who became the Joker, shot and killed my parents when I was just a kid. Can you help me get this makeup off?”
    By 4:45 P.M. three accidents were already being reported on the radio traffic updates involving news vehicles that were racing to the reported site of the Joker’s body. The ensuing traffic jams were producing a gridlock situation for motorists on their way home from work. By 5 P.M. the number of accidents had grown to six and fist fights at the sight of the wrecks began to erupt as tempers flared and desperation set in among the competing news crews.
      Television stations were already running teasers to get people to watch the six o’clock report. The Channel 6 promo sounded like this. “At 4:30 this afternoon a body with green hair and bone white skin was reported to have been found in the Patrician Cemetery, near Greatland subdivision. Rumors are that it may be the body of  the Joker, which has been missing since yesterday morning. Watch 6, at six, for the whole truth about the hunt for America’s most hated criminal.”
      Harley’s phone rang and she quickly picked it up. “Did you see that?” Carl Grissom, Jr. asked.     
    “Yeah, I just saw Channel 6,” Harley answered. “What the hell is going on, anyway?” 
    “You’ll see,” came the reply, followed by the sound of a phone hanging up.
    “I’m getting pretty damn sick of being hung up on,” Harley said through clinched teeth. She punched a button on her phone, which rang her administrative assistant, Penelope Hatfield. “Ms. Hatfield, would you inform Jim in maintenance that my phone is not working properly?”
    “Why yes, Harley,” came the reply, “but what seems to be the problem? I can hear you quite clearly.”
    “Yes,” Harley exhaled, attempting to drain off some of the tension she was feeling, “but believe me, dear, it’s broke.” she hung up, picked up the entire unit and heaved it across the room. It crashed against the door and clattered to the floor in several pieces. “There,” Harley said with satisfaction, “I feel better now.”
~      ~      ~
    Commissioner Gordon looked down into the open grave and saw the perfectly preserved remains of a man with green hair, bone white skin and red lips. The body was dressed in what seemed to be the same garish, yet expensively tailored suit that the joker had died and been buried in. Once again, the sound of the annoying mechanical laugh box floated upward. Police were holding back the throng of news hounds, photographers, and onlookers. The relief on the Commissioners face was readily discernable as he turned to the mob, with their microphones and cameras all pointed at him. He waived and waited for the noise to subside to a level where he could be heard. 
    “Until we have a report from the county pathology department, we will not have indisputable proof, but based upon my preliminary observations, I think we may have come to the end of this bizarre search for the corpse of the Joker. Again, I want you to understand that this investigation is not yet closed and won’t be until we hear from the county pathologist.  We are now going to allow television and newspaper camera people in, one at a time, to take photographs. Ms.Vale, you may be the first. Step forward please. You may have three minutes.”
    Vicki pushed her way forward through the crowd amidst cries of protest at her being chosen for the first photo session and stood at the edge of the grave. She began snapping pictures, walking around the perimeter of the grave as she did so. As she neared the end of her three minute period, the mechanical laugh box and the face with the maniacal frozen grin staring up at her through the viewfinder began to get to her. From six feet below, the smell of formaldehyde, either real or imagined, wafted up, filling her nose and saturating her sinuses. Her legs became weak, her stomach lurched and she began to feel lightheaded. Everything became dreamlike and seemed to be moving in slow motion as she stumbled and began to fall directly into the grave. In her mind, the corpse smiled hideously as its eyes opened and its white fingers beckoned her to join him. The dead arms stretched up and spread wide open, inviting and welcoming this lovely, unexpected, visitor. She could feel the cold of death dragging her down, sapping the life out of her. The nightmarish dream was interrupted by the strong arms of Commissioner Gordon, who reached out and grabbed her just as she began to topple forward. If not for the camera strap around her neck she would have dropped the camera into the grave for sure.
      “My God, Ms. Vale, that was too close! Are you going to be all right?” the Commissioner asked.
    “What happened?” Vicki asked, putting a hand to her clammy forehead.
    “You almost did a swan dive right into that grave, Ms. Vale. That’s what just happened.” Commissioner Gordon turned and called for the paramedics. He asked them to be sure Vicki was okay before allowing her to leave the scene.
      Once Vicki was out of the immediate vicinity of the grave other photographers and cameramen from the cities various news departments were allowed to come forward, one at a time, to get their pictures. The circus atmosphere around the grave continued to escalate as a helicopter approached from the north. It came in low and made a fast pass overhead, banking sharply, as the pilot searched for a suitable landing site. As the small, jet black, two seated copter slowed and began to descend, it swung around revealing a large yellow oval with the shape of a black bat emblazoned on the tail. Cameras flashed as the caped crusader leaped out.
    A hush fell over the crowd as the Dark Knight reached the grave and looked intently at the corpse. Batman knelt down at the edge of the grave and grabbed a small flashlight and a pair of telescoping goggles from his utility belt. He shined the beam directly into the face of the corpse and then down over the entire body. From the quiet sense of expectation that enveloped the scene, you would have thought it was Tiger Woods, lining up a putt on the 18th hole, which would potentially win another major tournament. Satisfied with whatever it was that he was looking for, Batman stood and turned to consult with Commissioner Gordon.
    “Do you think it’s The Joker?” the Commissioner asked.
    “It’s hard to say, but I don‘t think so.” Batman replied. “With my Batscope goggles, I noticed acid burns on the fingers, which have erased the identifying fingerprints. Someone is trying to conceal this person's real identity."
    Commissioner Gordon appeared baffled, “But it’s him, Batman. I could never forget that face. How could there be acid burns on the fingers? There weren’t any burns on the Joker’s fingers when he was buried.”
    Batman nodded in agreement, “Exactly, Commissioner, that is why I doubt that this is really the Joker, but I think it might be in our best interest to allow the press and the public to believe this is him. It might also be to our advantage to have whoever is behind all of this believing we are convinced this is the Joker’s body.”
    The commissioner motioned the paramedics in to retrieve the corpse. As they did so, the press attempted to get Batman to make a statement, but he merely turned and headed back to the Bat-copter. He leaped into the cockpit, strapped himself in and turned the ignition. As the blades began to whirl he waived to the Commissioner and lifted off. Upon reaching a sufficient altitude he swung the copter around and headed back in the direction from which he had come. No way that’s the Joker, he thought, as he streaked towards the secret terminal that housed the Bat-plane and two other heavily armed jet copters.

~      ~      ~

     
      At the same time, the thoughts of Commissioner Gordon leaned in a different direction, I think Batman may be wrong this time. It just looks too much like The Joker to not actually be him. He turned once again to speak to the remainder of the crowd that was now beginning to thin out. “We’ll know more after the pathology department has a chance to look at dental records and other identifying marks. We‘ll let you know, as soon as we hear anything.”

~      ~      ~

     
      Vicki drove back to Wayne Manor in her rented car. She used the card key Bruce had given her when she reached the massive front gates. The Gates swung open and she made her way along the lengthy, winding driveway to the garage area, where she parked, unbuckled her seat belt and turned the ignition off. She sat there for a minute piecing together the events of the day. She had a lot of film to develop and was glad that Wayne Manor included a state of the art film developing room with all of the equipment a professional required.
      She swung the door of the Chrysler PT Cruiser open, and stepped out. Parked in the garage area were the six different vehicles that Bruce kept for personal use. There was a black 1952 Bentley, a red 1954 300 SL Mercedes Gull-Wing, a blue 1967 De Tomaso Mangusta, a burgundy 2003 Mercedes Maybach 4 door, a red 1967 Pontiac GTO, and A blue 2003 Bugatti,. Each of these vehicles were immaculately maintained and kept showroom clean. She walked past them slowly, tempted, yet afraid to touch the gleaming finish on any of them.
    She opened the door that led from the garage into Wayne Manor and found herself in a sports memorabilia room. Along one side, signed baseballs from the greatest names in the history of the game were proudly displayed behind sparkling glass cases, which had been built into the wall. Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, Mark McGuire, Barry Bonds, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Willie Mays, Joe Dimaggio, and Ted Williams were in a section labeled “The Great Hitters.” Another section, labeled, “The Great Pitchers,” held baseballs signed by Nolan Ryan, Randy Johnson, Roger Clemens, Bob Feller, Christy Mathewson, Cy Young, Warren Spahn, Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax, Whitey Ford, Satchell Paige, and Don Drysdale. There was a section for “The Great Managers,” which featured Casey Stengle, Walter Alston, Paul Richards, Leo Durocher, and Tommy Lasorda. There was even a pile of dust, on a plaque shaped like home plate, with a note which read, “Waiting to be kicked,” signed by Billy Martin.
      The majority of these names meant nothing to Vicki, although she admired the tasteful way everything had been designed and arranged. She didn’t even bother examining the walls with the historical football and basketball memorabilia. A beautifully reconditioned antique billiards table commanded the center of the room, while at the far end a poker table stood in front of a  bar, reminiscent of the 1890’s, complete with antique bar stools in front and antique liquor bottles displayed on racks in the back. On the opposite end of the room, six overstuffed Ralph Lauren leather chairs with tables next to each one faced a nine foot wide screen, which extended downward  from the ceiling or the viewing of movies or sports. To add to the realism of the experience, a surround sound system had been built into the ceiling and walls.
    “Now that’s a room I won’t be spending much time in,” she thought, but if I were a guy I’d probably live in there. She exited the sports room and found herself in a long hallway. To the right, the hallway came to a dead end where what looked to be a closet held who knows what? Her curiosity led her in that direction. She turned the knob on the door but found that it was locked.
    “May I help you, Ms. Vale?” came an unexpected voice from behind her that made her squeak with surprise. She turned to see Richards, smiling patiently at the other end of the hallway.
    “Sorry, I didn’t come in the front door,” Vicki said, “I came in through the garage,and was just looking around. That sports room is really something. What do you guys keep in this closet? Or is that a secret?”
    “No, Ms. Vale, there are no secrets to you in this house, per Master Wayne’s instructions. The door you are wondering about does not lead into a closet. It is the entry to the projection room, which houses the sound equipment amplifiers and projectors for the Sports Emporium. Would you care to have a look?”
    “No, not now, perhaps another time. Vicki began to walk towards Richards and noticed another room on her right before the hallway emptied into a large den. “What’s in there?” she asked.
    “That would be one of the three libraries in Wayne Manor, we call this, The Fiction Room.” Richards opened the door, revealing a richly paneled room with a 4-foot tall aquarium built into the walls, bordered on the top and bottom by rows of expensively bound books. As Vicki scanned the titles she saw what seemed to be hard back, first edition printings of classics by authors like H. G. Wells, Jules Vern, Ernest Hemmingway, Charles Dickens, Ray Bradbury, and even Steven King. The Aquarium, stocked with the most colorful and exotic tropical fish that money could buy, extended around three of the four walls in the room, excluding only the wall which housed the entry door. On either end of the room was a short wooden ladder leaning against the wall, to be used when desiring a book on the uppermost row. Furnishings in the room consisted of 2 mahogany tables. On either side of each table was a generously padded chair, perfect for long periods of reading. Reading light in the room was achieved by two tiffany style, hand painted, stained glass lamps, which hung from chains suspended from the ceiling above each table. Indirect lighting for the rest of the room came from recessed adjustable lighting in the ceiling, around the perimeter of the room, which added a soft glow. It was the kind of room in which an avid reader could forget about the rest of the world. Soft classical music piped in through ceiling speakers added to the comfortable ambience and made it that much more difficult to put a book down once you became interested in it.
    Vicki turned to Richards and asked, “So you have a Sports Emporium and this wonderful Library, which you call The Fiction Room. What do you call the other two libraries?”
    Richards answered with, “The non-fiction room and the research room. If you would like to see them I would be most happy to take you to them now.”
    “What other kinds of rooms do you have here?” Vicki wondered.
    “We have two Theatres,” Richards replied, “each equipped with seating for 25, which may be used for the viewing of either movies or Television programs. We plan to use those for procuring donations this Friday during the benefit. Admission for each showing will be a $100 tax deductible donation, per person.”
    Vicki thought this was a great idea. “What movies are you going to show?” she asked. “And is popcorn, candy and a coke going to run an extra $25? Actually that wouldn‘t be much more than what they charge at the multi-plex cinema, now, would it?”
    “Refreshments will be served at no additional charge,” Richards assured her. “In keeping with our theme this year of Heroes and Villains, we were thinking of showing  Zorro, with Antonio Banderas, in one theatre, and, in the other, the recent Spiderman movie, with Toby McGuire.”
    “How about in the Sports Emporium? Are you going to show a sports related film in there,” Vicki asked?
    “Ah, yes, I almost forgot about that. We will only seat six at a time for a showing of Master Wayne’s favorite baseball movie, The Natural, starring Robert Redford.”
    “Oooh, I love Robert Redford,” Vicki said, and then asked, obviously becoming excited about the upcoming event, “What else is planned? Tell me all about it!”
    “Certainly, Ms. Vale, as you wish.” Richards told her that the Brian Setzer Orchestra would be performing in the large ballroom, where admission would be a donation of $150 per person. Prince was scheduled to appear in the casino area, where admission would be a $100 per person cover donation, and then Blackjack, roulette, craps, and poker would be available for a minimum of $10 per wager.”
    Vicki asked, “How many people usually show up, and how much money does the benefit usually raise?”
    “This year we have mailed a little over 3,000 invitations. Probably a little over half that many will actually show up. Over the past 14 years the most we have raised at one event was 1.8 million. We are hoping to break the record this year, even with the economy having been down a bit. This year, we have invited more Hollywood celebrities than ever before. They love to dress up and gamble, and they love to be seen making charitable donations. Good for the image, you know. So I say we will jolly well break the record this year or my name isn‘t Charles Wesley Richards.”

~        ~        ~

    “Commissioner Gordon sat at his desk, waiting for the news to begin, looking up at the TV mounted near the ceiling in the corner of his office. His desk was a mess, cluttered with folders that had been stamped with the names of the ongoing investigations they represented. Kolasinski, Napier, and Grissom were names that appeared near the top of the pile. Yellow, green, and pink Post-it sticky notes hung at all angles from his computer monitor, in hopes of reminding him of issues that required immediate attention. The theme music for the program began and at first a wide view of the news set appeared, followed by the camera zooming in on a tight shot of the anchor person who would introduce the lead story. 
    Chuck Martin was the longtime anchor for the local CBS affiliate, Channel 6. He was a tall, athletic looking man, in his late fifties, with black hair, kept that way for many years by Grecian formula for men. An announcer‘s voice began, “6 at Six. The news before the news at Seven on CBS, here’s the voice of Gotham City, Chuck Martin.”
      Martin looked up from the news copy he had been studying and said, “Good evening Gotham and surrounding cities. Tonight we continue the coverage on what may be the most bizarre event that we have seen this year. At 4:30 this afternoon Gotham police, Television and Radio stations, as well as local newspapers received an anonymous call, informing us that the body of The Joker had been spotted in an open grave at Patrician Cemetery, near the Greatland subdivision.
      The ensuing race to get there first by the cities various news departments resulted in what you are seeing now on your screen, traffic accidents, followed by gridlock and flaring tempers.” The scene switched to a close up shot of two radio news crews, who’s vans had collided with each other on the beltway. The censors bleep button was working overtime, as the two competing teams cursed, pushed, and shoved each other, which naturally led to an all out brawl. Angry motorists, who were being inconvenienced by the juvenile behavior of the combatants, honked and shouted for the two vans to be pulled to the side of the road so they could get by. The van’s occupants seemingly became enraged at the lack of patience the motorists were showing and began attacking them as well. The producer of the news program had come up with the idea of playing “Eye of the Tiger” which was the theme song from one of the Sylvester Stallone, “Rocky,” movies, as a background for the melee which unfolded now on the screen. 
    “In all,” the voice of Martin was heard again, as the camera widened its angle and pulled back from the fighting news departments, “six accidents were reported involving reporters or camera crews attempting to reach the scene where it was reported that the body of  Joker had been located. Once on the scene there were more developments that you will want to see, coming up next on 6 at Six, after these messages.”
        The camera zoomed back in on the Beltway fighting incident as the background music volume was increased and then the scene faded into what seemed to be an endless stream of commercials that assaulted viewers for the next two or three minutes. If you needed to know where to buy a car, where to get a loan or set up a checking account, where to buy a suit, where to buy a house, where to buy your groceries, or where to go for a tough lawyer, then the three minutes was well spent. If not, then you were glad to see the 6 at Six logo reappear, along with the familiar face and voice of Chuck Martin.
    “We return now to the coverage of the bizarre events that have transpired since the disappearance of the Joker’s body. The quiet, dignified atmosphere at the Patrician Cemetery on the outskirts of town, near the upscale Greatland subdivision was shattered today as the city’s converging news teams and curiosity seekers arrived en masse, looking for a picture or a glimpse of the remains of the most hated criminal in United States history.  This all began early Monday morning, sometime around 2 A.M. when the grave of Jack Napier was desecrated by someone, we still don’t know who; for some reason, we still don’t know why. What we do know is that police arrived at the old Eternal Rest Cemetery near downtown to find a six foot deep hole had been dug, the coffin had been opened, and the body was missing. Everybody, Batman included, has been looking for the body ever since. This was the scene as your 6 at Six news team arrived at the Patrician Cemetery this afternoon.”
    The camera shot changed from Chuck Martin, to a scene of the Channel 6 news van arriving at the cemetery. Looking through the front windshield of the van, there are cars parked everywhere, blocking the driveway, making it impossible to drive into the cemetery.
      The van stops and the camera continues to roll as the cameraman gets out and we are transported in a jerking, running motion towards a large circular crowd of people, who are evidently gathered around an open grave.  We are jostled and bounced as we push our way through the crowd just in time to hear the words of Police Commissioner Gordon. He explains that the pathology department would have to do some testing before the body could be positively identified, and then he asks Vicki Vale to be the first to take pictures of the corpse.
      The dramatic footage that follows shows Ms. Vale walking around the grave and then evidently becoming faint and stumbling. Just when it looks as if she will fall into the open grave the Commissioner grabs her and subsequently instructs paramedics to take her away. Now, the camera moves forward, giving viewers a look directly into the grave. The bone white face with the hideous grin and green hair is there, looking just as it had fourteen years earlier. By all appearances, it does indeed seem to be The Joker.
    The voice of Chuck Martin returns, as the camera lens zooms in on the still face of the corpse. The face fills the television screen as Martin asks, “Is this the face of the man responsible for over 9,000 deaths in and around the Gotham City area? The chance that it might be drew more than just a large crowd of onlookers and the police. Even Batman showed up to take a look.” The camera turns away from the white face and picks up an approaching small, black helicopter which, as it turns to land, reveals on the tail section of the craft the yellow oval with the bat, known to everyone as the BATMAN logo. The camera zooms in as the masked crime fighter disembarks from the copter and kneels at the foot of the grave, wearing some kind of special goggles and shining a flashlight into what is alleged to be the face of the dead villain.
    In her office at Axis Chemicals Harley Quinn watched, slack jawed, with amazement. “Damn, so this is what he meant. Talk about your diversionary tactics, this is brilliant,” she said, nodding with approval.
    In his office, at the Gotham Globe, Alexander Knox is also watching, slack jawed, with amazement. “Damn, I could have been there,” Knox said to himself. “If only Henderson had convinced me to go along, Vicki would have let me go right up there with her and it would have been me saving the day, catching her as she fell. I would have been a hero. Instead, here I am, just another schmuck, watching the news like everybody else.” He rummaged around through the pile on his desk for his list of cell phone numbers and then remembered that he had Henderson listed as one of his voice dial entries on his cell phone. He picked up his cell and flipped it open. A female voice inquired, “Who would you like to call?” followed by a beep. He spoke the name Justin Henderson and waited as the female voice appeared again. “Connecting,” she said. This was followed by the ringing of Henderson’s phone and then Henderson’s voice, as he answered.
    “This is Justin.”
    Knox got right to the point, “Justin, Knox here. What’s the idea of running off without me to cover the Joker thing today?”   
Henderson was stunned. “What do you mean, I ran off without you? If you’ll remember, I tried to get you to go, but you said something about, Fool me once...”
    Agitated, Knox leaned forward in his chair, tapping his cigar ashes into his ashtray. “Yeah, yeah, since when do you pay any attention to what I say, anyway? When there’s a big story like that breaking, you need to twist my arm if you have to, but don’t let me miss good shit like this. I’ll let it go this time, but you need to keep me in the loop on the big stories. I’m counting on you to do that. I can count on you, can’t I, Henderson?
    Henderson let Knox know how he felt, as he responded with, “Knox, kiss my ass,” and hung up.
    Knox leaned back, puffed on his cigar and thought, “What has happened? I don’t get any respect around here. Who am I to these people anyway, Rodney Dangerfield?”

BATMAN: REVENGE

Chapter 11   

      In the Batcave, Bruce watched the news at six o’clock. He was sure that the body found in the Patrician Cemetery was the result of an elaborate hoax perpetrated by someone that either had been at one time or was currently working with the Joker. He was also sure that the discovery of the look alike body meant that somebody had been killed and then submersed in the same chemicals that the Joker had fallen into. They had to have been  coated with the concoction after they had died and had undergone plastic surgery to enhance the resemblance to the Joker.  The burned off fingerprints were the first clue. The protected cells of the Joker’s body would have morphed back to their original condition, even after having been burned by the acid. Bruce knew the embalmers actions from 14 years ago were of paramount importance and one of two things were going to end up being true.  Either the Joker’s brain and internal organs were removed, thus leaving him incapable of functioning, but preserved for all time, or else the Joker was in all likelihood completely regenerated and functioning once again. If that was the case, Bruce thought, how incredibly unbearable the past years must have been. Not alive, but unable to die. This unholy monster, a new kind of Count Dracula, would now have a lust for blood, but not for the purpose of sustaining his own life. His motivation could simply be summed up in one word, revenge. He would have
experienced the ultimate claustrophobic horror in solitary confinement, after lying for 14 years in the tight confines of a pitch black, silent grave. His hatred for those that had put him there would surely have intensified with each slowly passing minute of every torturous day.
        In the darkness, the desire for revenge would have been the only vision he could focus upon, the one thin thread he could hold onto that kept him from losing his grip and coming unraveled while the very people that put him there celebrated his demise and resumed their damnable existence in a city that unjustly flourished just six feet above him. Revenge and the time spent planning how to achieve it would have been his only means of sustenance. Revenge against Gotham City, Batman and everyone associated with him. And, unless some method was found to counteract the chemicals that protected his cells from decomposing, he would be, for all intents and purposes, immortal. An enraged, immortal,  homicidal maniac, who wanted one thing and one thing only… Revenge.
    Bruce hoped he was just jumping to conclusions and letting his imagination run away with him. Surely the embalmer had done his job properly.  He picked up the phone and called upstairs to Richards.
    “Richards here, sir.”
    Bruce asked him, “Did Vicki get home okay?”
    Richards replied, “Yes sir, she arrived home shortly before six. She seemed a bit weary, but other than that she was in good spirits. Will you be joining us for dinner, sir?”
    “I’d like to, but I have a lot to do down here. I think I’m still a couple of hours away from being able to stop. Could you send me down a roast beef sandwich with a pickle and some chips and a diet caffeine free Dr. Pepper?”
    Richards said he would bring it down shortly and before he hung up, asked, “Would you care for a dessert, sir?”
    “Maybe,” Bruce said, “when I come up, I’ll have some Haagen Daas coconut pineapple ice cream, if you don’t eat it all before I get there, like you did last time.”
    “Sorry about that, sir,” Richards apologized, “I must learn to control my cravings when they seem to coincide with yours, or perhaps I should begin to buy the half gallon, instead of the pint.” 
      Bruce agreed with that and hung up. He began playing back the six o’clock report, and discovered for the first time that Vicki had almost fallen into the open grave. Bruce wondered why Richards had failed to mention it and realized that Richards may not have seen the report and Vicki may not have told him about her near mishap. He got up and went to the elevator, pressing the button for the floor that would take him to the kitchen. As he stepped out he saw Vicki sitting at the table, having dinner with Richards and the French chef, Andre. They were laughing about something Andre had said and beckoned to Bruce to have a seat and join them.
    Bruce said, “Vicki, can I see you for a moment, alone?”
    Vicki wiped her mouth with her napkin, placed it on the table and asked Andre and Richards to excuse her for a minute. She looked at Bruce and smiled as she got up and walked with him into the large formal dining area on the other side of the wall from the kitchen. Bruce asked her, “Are you all right?”
    Surprise registered on her face for a moment as she asked, “Why, what’s wrong?”
    “I saw you on the news report. You almost fell into that grave. What happened?”
    “I’m not really sure, Bruce,” Vicki answered. “One minute I was snapping pictures, and then I started smelling formaldehyde, or at least I thought I was smelling it, and that grotesque face was looking up at me. And then I got dizzy and almost blacked out.”
    “It’s a good thing Commissioner Gordon was there to grab you. This is two times you’ve fainted in two days, Vicki. That’s not normal. Don’t you think you should see a doctor? I’m a little worried about you.”
    Vicki looked at Bruce’s face closely, studying the concern he was showing for her. She liked what she saw. “I don’t need a doctor,” she answered, “I just need another night like last night, except maybe we should get to sleep a little earlier. I have to do some work in the dark room and then I‘m going to take a bath and get myself to bed. You aren‘t going to make me go to bed alone, are you?” She put her arms around him and he responded by putting his arms around her, as well. He kissed her and then squeezed her tightly. He kissed her again, lightly, on her forehead.
    “I’ll be through as quickly as I can,” he said. As she turned to go back to the kitchen he reached out and stopped her by gently grabbing her hand. “Vicki?”
    “Yes,” she answered?
    “I’m glad you’re here,” Bruce said.
    “So am I,” she replied, as she squeezed his hand. Then she let go and went back into the kitchen. Bruce listened to her as she resumed her conversation with Andre.
    “So, what did she say when they brought her dress to her, Andre?” she asked.
      Bruce was flabbergasted. They were talking about the incident with Chase and the burning French bread. Oh, no! And they had told her Chase had her dress off! He quickly turned the corner in hopes of doing some kind of damage control and sat down at the kitchen table in the one remaining chair. Vicki smiled at him, while shooing him away with her hand and said, “You go on and finish what you need to do, Bruce, and let us finish our dinner. Andre has some of the funniest stories.”
    Bruce shot Andre a look that could only mean, “you better watch what you say.” Andre caught the look and understood the message, but simply shrugged his shoulders as if to say that the cat’s out of the bag, it‘s too late now. Bruce got up and headed to the elevator. He looked back at Vicki with a worried look as the doors began to close, helpless, like the little boy who knows he’s going to be in trouble for something he did, but can’t do anything to stop it. Vicki blew him a kiss, and giggled.
      By 7:30 P.M. Dr. Melvin Slaughter had finished with his examination of the body reported to be that of the Joker. He peeled off the rubber gloves and washed up before walking down the hall to his office. He was tired and worried. Tired, because it had been a long day and worried because someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this corpse resemble the Joker. Dental work had recently been done, in an attempt to match the Joker’s dental records. He shook his head as he picked up his voice scribe, to record what he had found. Just as he was about to begin dictation, the phone rang.
    Dr. Slaughter answered the phone differently, depending on the time of day and how he felt. Early in the morning it was “Good Morning, Dr. Melvin Slaughter here, how may I help you?” By lunch it was amended to, “Dr. Melvin Slaughter, may I help you?” Around 5 P.M. it was down to just “Dr. Slaughter.” On days that he found himself still working at this hour, his once effervescent greeting had dwindled to, “Slaughter.” That was the greeting that Bruce heard now.
    “This is Batman, Doctor. I hate to press you for information, but I’m curious to see if we’ve come up with the same conclusions in regards to the corpse found at Patrician Cemetery. I say it wasn’t the Joker. What did you find?”
    “I agree, Batman, but it’s interesting that someone would go to so much trouble. The fingerprints had been burned off with acid. They even did dental surgery to try to match the dental records, as well as plastic surgery to recreate the Joker’s grin. These were done after the death of this person, but before he was immersed in the chemicals which turned his skin white. Now, the really perplexing thing here is that the chemicals seem to have been identical to the ones the Joker fell into. The difference is that this person’s tissue was preserved after death, as opposed to the Joker, who was preserved while still alive. If this person had been dunked in the chemicals before death, I believe he’d be able to tell us what we need to know. Unfortunately, for me, the alterations, together with the surgeries, are going to make it tough to come up with a positive identification of whoever this might have been.”
    Bruce asked, “Are you sure these are the same chemicals that transformed the Joker? That would mean those chemicals have either been in storage for years, or are currently being produced. And if they are being produced currently, I have a pretty good idea as to who might be doing it.”
    Dr. Slaughter assured Batman that he was almost positive that the chemicals were identical to the ones that transformed the Joker. He added one other idea to the many that whirled about in Bruce’s mind. “If anyone is producing these chemicals at this time, Batman, there is no way the government will ever approve this chemical combination to be sold, in any form, to the public.”
    Bruce thanked the Doctor again for his input and hung up. He picked up the phone again and dialed Commissioner Gordon. When Gordon answered, the weariness he was feeling was evident in his voice. He answered by saying, “Commissioner’s Desk, Gordon here.”
    “Commissioner, this is Batman. How are you holding up?”
    “To be honest Batman, I’m ready to go home.” The Commissioner was already looking forward to his customary glass or two of cognac. “Retirement is looking better and better with each day. Why don’t you crack this case and I’ll announce my retirement tomorrow.”
    Bruce smiled, “Do you have a successor picked out already?”
    “Finding someone dumb enough to take on this job isn’t easy Batman. I have someone in mind, now, but whether or not he actually says yes to taking the job, only time will tell.”
    “Who were you thinking of,” Bruce asked?
    “Benjamin Archer. Been on the force since Lincoln was president. Knows the department. Knows the city. He’s seen it all.”
    “I know Archer,” Bruce said. “I hate to bring it up, but do you think he can be bought? A man in your position comes in contact with a lot of people who may try to purchase support or approval.”
    “No way,” Gordon replied firmly. “He’s just like me. If money was what he wanted, he would have got out a long time ago.”
    At the Shrek industries building, Carl Grissom, Jr. got up from his desk and put out his hand to thank Benjamin Archer for his help in getting a D.U.I. charge dismissed. In his extended hand was an envelope containing 10 crisp $100 bills. “Captain Archer, I have a feeling you will be moving up in the near future,” Grissom said.
    “The future can’t come soon enough for me,” replied Archer, who smiled and slid the envelope into the inner left breast pocket of his silk sports coat. He turned and walked out of the office. At the age of 63, Archer was still a fine specimen of a man, about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a very good  hair weave, dark with graying temples. His one flaw, was the slight case of beer belly that was beginning to make his shirts too tight when he sat down. He had the swagger of a confident man used to making decisions, who enjoyed being in charge and knew how to use his authority for everyone’s
benefit. The way he looked at this transaction was that he was saving the city money by not tying up the court system. Undeniably some young, smart-ass lawyer would have made this much, or more, defending Grissom, so for Pete’s sake, why not put the money in a real public servant’s pocket?
    Commissioner Gordon told Batman before they hung up that he had still not heard anything from the county pathologist. He said he expected he would get the report first thing in the morning and would release a statement to the press shortly thereafter. He had told Batman that he still felt there was a good chance that the newly discovered body would turn out to be that of the Joker. Bruce figured there would be no harm in allowing the Commissioner to find out the truth in the morning. And it would be proper for the information to come from the pathologist’s department, rather than from him.
    “One more call to make,” Bruce said to himself, “and I can call it a night.” But, before he could make that call, Richards walked up, with the sandwich Bruce had asked for, and set it down in front of him.
    “Room service,” Richards said, smiling. “And you’ll be glad to know there is still a half pint of Haagen Daas left in the Freezer for you.”
    Bruce peeled back the top piece of bread to inspect the sandwich. Roast Beef on 7 grain wheat bread with lettuce, tomato and mustard. “Is that the Vidalia onion mustard that I like,” Bruce asked?
    “Indeed, it is, sir,” Richards confirmed, “along with Barbecue flavored chips, and a crispy, kosher dill pickle. Will there be anything else, sir?”
    “Well, now that you mention it,” Bruce said, “you guys don’t have to tell Vicki everything I do, you know. I don’t want you to lie, but gee whiz, how did the thing about Chase get started? Are you going to tell her about every affair I’ve had over the past thirteen years? All three of them?”
    “Since you brought it up, sir,” Richards replied, “I hope you won’t mind my saying, and I believe Alfred would agree with me here, we are all responsible for our actions. You can’t expect the staff to feel as if they can welcome Ms. Vale into the family, if they have to remember what they can and can’t say in front of her. If you have done something for which you feel embarrassed, you have nobody to blame other than yourself. Are you embarrassed about your conduct with Doctor Meridian?”
    “No, not at all. Well, maybe a little, but when is the last time I had an opportunity for some female companionship? You know women usually don‘t like to hear about their men being with other women. At the very least, she will probably end up holding that story over my head like, about forever.”
    “Oh,” Richards paused for a moment, “are you her man, sir?” Richards asked.
    “Well, yeah, maybe. I’d like to be, if you guys don‘t blow it for me,” Bruce replied.
      “Then I understand completely, sir. By the way,” Richards added, “we all like Ms. Vale very much. Will she be staying for a while?”
    “That’s up to her, Richards, but I hope so. I really do.”
    Chase Meridian was excited about the amazing progress of Edward Nygma and was attempting to gain authorization for Edward to take part in an off site work project, that Batman had requested. “I believe he has made a major breakthrough, Warden Borg. The kind of breakthrough I wouldn’t have thought possible several days ago. With a low dose of Zoloft and constant supervision, I believe he can make a valuable contribution to the Wayne Foundation research on the chemicals that created the Joker.”
    Warden Borg had major reservations about letting Edward out of the asylum for any reason. “Doctor Meridian, I know that Batman is pressuring you to expedite Edward’s recovery, but I’m not convinced that he is ready for this kind of a challenge.” He sat back comfortably in his chair, which Chase recognized as his non-committal posture.
    Chase wasn’t about to give up, yet. She leaned forward and asked, “Warden Borg, did you read the notes I left for you, today?”
    Borg shifted his position and began to look ill at ease, “No, I’ve been really busy and haven’t yet had the time to take a look at your notes. But, Dr. Meridian, it was your opinion, as recently as last week, that it would be months at the earliest before Edward would be ready to face any challenges, much less work outside of this facility. I understand that he may have made a breakthrough, but I find it difficult to believe it could have been of the magnitude necessary to enable him to function in the outside world.”
    Chase stood up and leaned forward, for emphasis, placing her hands palms down on the Warden’s desk. She looked hard at him, with her captivating blue eyes and said, “Warden, Gotham City needs you to give your approval to this request. I promise to personally monitor his behavior. Read my notes. We can discuss this further in the morning. It’s getting close to eight o’clock. I’m going home.” She turned and walked out. Warden Borg leaned forward, picked up the folder labeled Edward Nygma, and began to read the latest entries.
    Bruce Wayne still had one more call to make and then he could go upstairs to be with Vicki. He dialed Dick Grayson in Chicago. Tired of playing by someone else’s rules, Dick had left several years earlier to pursue his own interests and felt Chicago needed someone with his talents. He had dropped the identity of “Robin,” feeling that it was associated with the boy, that at the age of thirty, he no longer was, and had become “Nightwing,” a young man dedicated to the protection of innocent people in the Nation’s third largest city. After two rings, Dick answered, “Hello, Bruce, what’s happening?”
    Bruce figured Dick had been staying informed as to what was happening concerning the missing corpse. He asked his former houseguest, “Have you heard the latest?”
    “About the body being found?” Dick inquired. “I bet it wasn’t him was it?
    “Your instincts are on the money, Dick,” Bruce confirmed. “It was a corpse that had undergone plastic surgery and dental surgery to try to pass it off as the real deal. They even burned off the fingerprints.”
      Dick cleared his throat and said, “That’s a lot of work for a momentary diversion. Surely they knew you and the pathology departments would see through the trickery right away.”
    “I think they’re just having fun, for now, whoever they are, working the public into a frenzy. But they’re up to something serious. I have no doubt of that now. They’re just going to far too much trouble for a bunch of amateurs pulling a prank.” Bruce paused for a moment and added, “I also think the same group was responsible for the F-27 hijacking. If they had gotten away with that, I think it could have been really bad.”
    Dick had heard enough to know where the conversation might be headed. “Bruce, would you like me to come over there and help out?”
    “It may come to that, Dick. But right now, I think we have everything under control. I would like for you to be available, however, if we need you. Something could happen at any time.”
    “Hey Bruce, how about me coming down there for the benefit? You always have some great entertainment and if you ask me Halloween would be a likely time for something to happen.”
    “That’s a great idea, Dick. Could you do that? Are things quiet enough for you to get away?”
    “Sure, no problem. I’ll be there Thursday and fly back on Saturday. I’ll look forward to seeing you. Can I take one of your bikes out for a ride while I’m there?”
    Bruce chuckled, “Sure, you can even go for a joyride in the new Batmobile if you want to.”
    Dick liked that idea. His one word response was, “Sweet!”
    Bruce hung up feeling better and looking forward to seeing his old sidekick. As he got up from his media and computer console in the Batcave he smiled and thought to himself, “Cisco and Pancho ride again!” Then, the smile faded as he thought, “Cisco and Pancho? Damn, I‘m getting old!” He headed for the elevator and punched the button that would take him straight up to his bedroom. He stepped out as the doors opened and heard water draining in the master bath where the door had been left ajar. A cloud of steam floated in the air, slowly escaping from the bathroom. He walked over and looked in to see Vicki, just standing up in the tub, reaching for a towel. She smiled, showing no embarrassment and carefully wrapped the towel around her, but not in any great rush.
    “Did you get finished?” she asked.
    “Yeah, how about you? Did your pictures come out okay?” he asked, trying his best to act nonchalant as his heart raced.
    Vicki reached for a second towel, looked at Bruce and commented, “Nice towels,” as she put a foot up on the side of the tub, bent over, and began drying her legs. She said, “I got some great shots. I was happy with the way most of them came out.”

~        ~        ~

** Image ID #1771915 Unavailable **

     
        Several officers offered to accompany him as he left work that evening, but Commissioner James Gordon hadn't felt it necessary. After 44 years on the force, somehow no harm had come to him, and with the Joker's body seemingly having been found, he didn’t feel like his safety warranted a police escort.
        Needing to laugh a little, on the way home the Commissioner picked up a DVD he'd been meaning to watch for quite a while, As Good as it Gets. The leading lady, Helen Hunt, reminded him of his ex-wife. They had shared so many good times, but she divorced him claiming he seemed more committed to Gotham City than to her and their daughter. The phrase "spilt milk" came to mind, but the choices he made, the pain he caused, and the pain he continued to feel, amounted to a hell of a lot more than "spilt milk."
        Sitting in his driveway, Gordon removed the keys from the ignition and shook his head one last time at the disturbing memories. He grunted with disapproval at the squawk emitted by the creaky door of his department-provided Ford as it swung open. The darned thing could wake the dead. He'd been meaning to requisition a new car for some time. Heading for his front door he promised himself that he would fill out the necessary paperwork, tomorrow, for sure...if he had time.
        He dropped his keys at the front door and cursed as he fumbled for them in the dim streetlamp light filtering through the branches of the old trees. Looking up at the burned-out bulb that should have brightened the entryway at his front door, he felt betrayed. It had been on last night. Why had it burned out? It didn’t stay on that long; just overnight, every night, except when he accidentally left it on for a week or two at a time. Finally, without enough light to see, he recognized the shape of his house key and began to search for the keyhole, feeling like a blind man using the Braille system.
        Once inside, his autopilot took over, steering him straight to the bar without needing to turn on the lights. The keys and the rented DVD were tossed onto the couch as he passed. Now, according to his tastebuds and salivary glands, it was high time for that special drink. Yes, indeed! He picked up the decanter, pulled the stopper out, and carefully placed it on the silver tray. Soon, a couple of ice cubes clinked into a glass and floated in a four-ounce pool of cognac.
        He couldn't be sure, but the decanter seemed less full than he remembered. Did he have a third drink last night? Sometimes he became forgetful after a second. As he plugged the stopper back into the decanter, something esle bothered him. One of his "special" glasses was missing. How could one be missing? He shook his head as he picked up his glass and took an experimental sip, "Ahhhh, delicious." Maybe he left the other glass in the kitchen. 
        The Commissioner walked around the side of the couch and set his drink on one of the two absorbent sandstone coasters he kept on his coffee table. After sitting, he untied his shoes and kicked them off. He lifted his glass off the coaster, leaned back, and put his feet on the table.
        Wiggling his toes, he closed his eyes and began to unwind. A vague recollection from childhood surfaced - his mother scolding him for putting his feet on her coffee table. He smiled and opened his heavy eyes to take another sip. Rich and sinfully satisfying, the expensive cognac provided a fitting reward at the end of a long day.
        "Don't smack your lips, James," his mother used to say.
        Sorry Mom, he thought and took great pleasure in smacking them out loud, followed by a grand yawn. The moonlight filtering in through the thin, lace curtains, combined with the street lamp outside, provided just enough illumination to identify the shapes of his familiar surroundings. But something wasn't right.
        Planting his feet back on the floor, Gordon leaned forward and tensed up. His breath quickened as he realized something didn't belong in the room. In the darkest part, sitting quietly and so very, very still in the chair on the other side of the coffee table, he saw someone, or something.
        As the seconds dragged by it became chillingly evident that whoever or whatever it might be, wasn’t breathing. Could it be a corpse? Commissioner Gordon leaned further forward to get a better look.
        “Who, who, who’s there?” the Commissioner asked - his throat tightening, his voice becoming hoarse.
        He jerked backward involuntarily as a hand rose out of the shroud of darkness, spiraling, in a grand, ceremonial gesture of greeting. For a brief moment, the hand caught enough of the full moon and the street lamps outside for Gordon to distinguish eerily green nails on the fingertips of a deathly bone-white hand.
        Breaking the silence, the previously lifeless intruder sucked in a long, deep breath and replied almost in a whisper as he expelled the sweet, delicious air. “An old friend, Commissioner.” Though softly spoken, the ghostly delivery of the answer revealed a barely restrained sense of triumph and  satisfaction.
        Gordon recognized the voice immediately. His heart began to race as the uninvited guest took another sip of air and spoke again, exhibiting a strange, jocular attitude, “Don’t bother offering me a drink, I already poured one for myself. That’s a nice cognac you have there, but be careful now, a man could get addicted to that stuff. You know, I used to enjoy a stiff drink from time to time, maybe a little too often come to think of it. I also used to enjoy breathing. Couldn’t go through so much as a day without doing it. Booze and breathing, you might say I became addicted to both. But, thanks to the little intervention party you and Batman put together, I kicked those habits. Gave them both up, cold turkey. Talk about your withdrawal symptoms!” 
        The bizarre figure slapped his thigh and laughed out loud, seeming to almost lose control for a moment, before settling down and shaking his head. He wiped his brow with an orange handkerchief that he pulled from the breast pocket of his purple Edwardian jacket. After carefully refolding and reinserting it, he continued. “Now I find that I can enjoy them both again and, although the good people at the Betty Ford clinic might preach abstinence, I find that moderation is the key. I do enjoy both, but I can exist without them, as well.” 
        Deathly silence enveloped the room once more, except for the rapid, shallow, breathing of the Commissioner and the clinking of ice cubes in his glass as his hand began to shake.
        The hideous facial disfigurement that resembled a permanent grin became visible as the visitor leaned forward slightly and apologized, “I know, I should have phoned to tell you I was coming over. I hope you don’t think me rude, but I thought you‘d be tickled to death to see me again. Please, please,” he waved a pale hand encouragingly, “go ahead and finish your drink, then we can get down to business.”
        The Commissioner glanced at his glass and swallowed the remainder of his cognac in one gulp. Straining to see through the veil of darkness, he set the glass down and said, “It can’t be you, I was there when you were buried. You’re dead.”
        A low, rumbling chuckle came from the other side of the coffee table, after which the intruder replied, “Dead? Yes, I am. But I'm far less dead than you're going to be in another minute or two. You see, James, I poured a small amount of a powerful, tasteless poison into your glass. Some of my boys have been looking in on you recently and they noticed you rarely ever turn your lights on right away when you get home. If you had turned on your lights tonight, you might possibly have seen your glass wasn’t completely empty and I'm certain you would’ve seen me. That’s what I like about you, Commissioner, you’re the kind of guy people can count on. In fact I’d like to make a little toast in your honor, if I may.”
        Lifting the glass, which twinkled as it caught the faint light of the moon, the pale hand rose once again in a macabre, final salute to an old adversary, “Over the lips, over the gums, look out graveyard, here he comes!” Relishing his revenge, the Joker tilted the fine, cut crystal towards his abnormally red lips and downed the glass of cognac in a single gulp. "Ahhhhhhh."
        The Commissioner coughed, gasped, and began to choke. He reached for his throat, which constricted to the point where he wasn‘t getting any oxygen. As he gasped, the world spun, became blurry, and faded to black. He slumped over onto the arm of the couch and raggedly exhaled for the last time, his eyes open in a horrified stare. A tomb-like atmosphere enveloped the room, undisturbed by so much as a single breath from either occupant.
        A maven of the moribund, the Joker closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the ambiance of retribution. The bouquet of cognac and the Commissioner's last breath floated on the air, lingering in his nose and throat. He sighed with satisfaction and regret, savoring the moment as if it were the last drop of a rare, exquisite wine at the end of a gourmet meal. When he reopened his eyes, he gazed fondly at his victim and said, “Well, I hate to drink and run, Commissioner, but I have places to go and people to kill.” 
        The Joker set his glass down on the sandstone coaster that sat on his side of the coffee table, stood, and walked around to the couch where the Commissioner lay. He leaned over, picked up the DVD case and inspected it with amused curiosity. Seeing a picture of the leading actor on the cover, he nodded with approval. “Jack Nicholson, huh? Now there’s a great actor. Commissioner, you had good taste, I’ll grant you that. I promise to get this back to the video store on time, so you don’t get hit with late fees.” He chuckled, wickedly. Then the chuckle became a laugh. As he headed for the door, the laugh escalated into the chilling, uncontrollable howls of a crazed lunatic. “So you don’t get hit with late fees, Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...   

Batman: Revenge Chapters 12 - 15  (18+) Captain Archer meets a new friend. #1469633 by George R. Lasher