Batman: Revenge Chapters 12 - 15

BATMAN: REVENGE

CHAPTER 12

At 8 A.M. Wednesday morning the Commissioner’s chair sat empty as the phone rang. Dr. Slaughter was attempting to call in the results on The Joker look-alike. The Gotham Globe had called to find out what time the press conference would be held. That had been followed by four television stations, nine radio stations, the Mayor and then the Governor.

Gordon’s secretary, single, 32 year old Pamela Thornberry was used to seeing the Commissioner by no later than 7:30 A.M. Pamela was a very prim and proper, routine oriented individual and when things were changed at the last minute, or if people didn’t show up when they were expected, it had a tendency to upset her terribly, which usually resulted in a tension headache. Pamela was the kind of girl who had to have everything in its place. Everything had to match properly, right down to her underwear.

With each tick of the clock her nerves became more frayed. She anxiously twisted the handkerchief she always carried in her purse. With each call for the absent Commissioner her headache became more intense. She got out her nail file and began filing the hangnail she just started by biting the fingernail on her left little finger. The Commissioner had never been this late, certainly not without calling to alert her as to how late he was running. By nine she had called his cell phone fifteen times and had left ten messages. She had also called his home phone 10 times and left messages each time.

When Batman called, at nine-fifteen, she could no longer suppress her fears. He called to inform the Commissioner that he was on his way over to Kolasinski’s to see if he could find anything that might shed light on his apparent suicide.

“Batman,” Ms. Thornberry blurted out. “I think something is terribly wrong,” she squeaked. “He hasn’t come in and he hasn’t called. He’s never done this before. Would you please go by the Commissioner’s house and check on him?”

“Of course,” Batman assured Ms. Thornberry and hung up. Indeed, this was not normal for the Commissioner.

Batman pressed down on the accelerator and watched the speedometer’s digital readout increase as he headed for the Commissioner’s house. The Batmobile screeched to a halt in front of Gordon’s house. The white Ford was still parked in the driveway. The caped crusader’s canopy slid back and he hopped out, walked briskly up to the front door and found it unlocked. Opening it, he called out, “Commissioner, are you home? It’s Batman. Ms. Thornberry is worried sick about you. Hello, Commissioner? Are you there?” He walked in and found Gordon slumped over on the couch in the living room.

Outwardly, no obvious signs of foul play were evident, but one thing caught his eye. He saw two glasses on the coffee table. One, on the side where Gordon lay, the other on the opposite side. He flipped open a small cylinder on his belt and pulled out something similar to a small, prescription medicine bottle. He twisted off the cap, labeled “DNA SWABS” and used the cotton tip to soak up the small amount of liquid left in the glass that had been on the Commissioner’s side of the table. He used another swab and repeated the same process with the other glass. Both swabs were then separately bagged and labeled. Batman pulled two slightly larger, plastic bags, marked "EVIDENCE," out of his utility belt and separately bagged and labeled each glass , after which he flipped his cell phone open and waited while the familiar digital female voice asked, “Who would you like to call?” He replied with one word, “Homicide.”

The phones in the Gotham City Homicide Division, were always answered quickly, but Batman had a special number that rang through to the top man on duty at the time. This time, Captain Benjamin Archer answered the phone. When the red phone rang, the top man on duty knew it was someone high up in the police force, or city government, or it could always be Batman. Archer picked up the phone and said, “Homicide, Captain Archer here.”

The voice from the other end replied, “Captain Archer, this is Batman.”

“Yes Batman, what can I do for you?”

“I need to report a homicide, and you need to dispatch the boys in forensics and a couple of detectives to investigate this case. I think you’ll find a toxic substance had been put in the glass of the victim. I’ve bagged two glasses and have already collected DNA swab samples from both.”

“Where are you, Batman?" Archer asked, "Give me an address.”

“It’s the Commissioner, Captain Archer. Gordon is dead. I’m at his home.”

Wondering who might have done it, and why, Archer paused for a moment, unsettled momentarily by the unexpected news. When he spoke again he said, “Were on our way, are you sure it was a homicide? Is there any sign of a struggle?”

“I’ll let the boys in forensics make that determination. I’ll give them the evidence I’ve collected.”

Batman hung up, leaving Captain Archer thinking to himself, Grissom said I would be moving up, but surely he didn’t have anything to do with this. Gordon must have had a thousand enemies after all his years on the force. I know I do. Hell, we worked together on hundreds of cases. I’d better head up this investigation myself. Whoever went after Gordon could just as easily be after me.

Batman flipped his cell phone open again and called Wayne Manor. Richards answered on the second ring, “Yes, Master Wayne?”

A nasty thought crept into the mind of Gotham City’s caped crime fighter as he asked, “Is Vicki still there?”

“Why, no,” Richards answered. “She left less than 20 minutes ago. Pardon me, sir, but you sound a bit agitated. Is something amiss?”

“Yes, Commissioner Gordon has been killed and I think you should be aware that Vicki and I could be in danger as well. Richards, I need for you to do some research for me while I’m out, today. I need you to look up the government’s testing of the Axis chemical products. See where they are in the process. I also need to know everything you can find out on Shrek Industries and Carl Grissom, Jr. I mean everything. Schools attended, extra curricular activities, police records, the works.”

Richards said he would get right on it.

Batman hit “end,” to hang up and verbally directed the phone to contact Vicki. To his relief she answered on the third ring.

“This is Vicki.”

The voice of the man she loved came through crisply, the tiny cell phone clearly conveying the concern in his voice, “Vicki, are you okay? Where are you right now? What are you doing?”

“I’m at Dillard's department store,” Vicki answered. “I needed to pick up a few things, since it looks like I’m going to be in Gotham City a little longer than the 3 or 4 days I had originally planned. Why? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. You have to promise me something, though, before I can tell you what
happened last night.”

“You’re scaring me, Bruce. What do I need to promise you? What happened last night?”

“Vicki, you have to promise me you’re not going to pass out again if I tell you
something really bad.”

“Bruce, for God’s sake, I am going to pass out right now if you don’t tell me what you’re talking about! Jesus!”

“All right, well, it’s about Commissioner Gordon. Last night someone poisoned him. He’s dead and as impossible as it sounds, I think there's a chance that The Joker is involved . . . either that, or someone from his old gang is trying to get even with the people that did him in. Vicki, you could easily be on the list of those they want to get even with.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment, then Vicki said, “It can’t be the Joker. We both saw him fall. We almost fell. Come to think of it, we did fall about 10 stories. If it hadn’t been for that grappler, hook thing, we would have died, too. The Joker was squashed as flat as a squirrel run over by a truck. Why would you even begin to think he could have done it?”

“I have my reasons. I intend to find out if they’re well founded. In any case, whoever killed the Commissioner, if they're in any way connected to The Joker or his gang, they probably have an axe to grind with Batman, or Bruce Wayne, or both. You should get back to Wayne Manor. You’ll be safe there and I need you to help Richards with some research on those new Axis Chemicals products you told me about. If those chemicals are as unsafe as I think they may be, then it’s possible that a lot of investors, employees and stockholders are being duped by falsified reports about the earnings potential of these new products.”

“Bruce, I’m sorry about Commissioner Gordon,” Vicki said. “I know he was an old friend of yours. I’ll help in any way I can.”

“After my parents were shot he checked in on me frequently. He was a good friend of my Dad’s. Whoever did this has to be brought to justice. Listen, I have to go by the house of the guy who was supposed to have done the embalming of the Joker fourteen years ago. I was headed over there this morning when I got the call about the Commissioner. The police found this guy dead in his car from carbon monoxide poisoning. He may have kept files at home that would shed some light on whether or not we could actually be dealing with the Joker, or I may find something there that would explain why a guy described as healthy as a horse would suddenly take his own life. I’ll be home early if I can.”

Vicki replied, “All right, but be careful.”

Bruce didn’t tell her what he thought as he hung up. “That’s exactly what I told Commissioner Gordon, Monday morning.”

By now the sound of approaching sirens alerted Batman to the fact that the homicide crew was almost there. When they arrived Captain Benjamin Archer led them. Archer jumped out of his white, city issued Chevy and strolled up to Batman with his hand outstretched to shake. “Batman,” Archer said in a consoling tone as he grasped the gloved hand of Gotham’s caped crusader, “I’m so, so sorry about the Commissioner. I know you two were close friends. He was my friend as well.”

Batman nodded and said, “Commissioner Gordon was just telling me, last night, that he thought highly of you, Captain Archer. We were discussing his forthcoming retirement and some possible, qualified replacements.”

“Oh my, and he mentioned me?” Archer feigned surprised. “I could never replace the Commissioner, nobody could. I could only hope to succeed him in a way that he would find acceptable.” The Captain looked towards the house and asked, “Did you leave the evidence, that we discussed?”

“It’s on the kitchen counter, Captain Archer,” Batman replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some other matters to attend to.” Batman did not inform the Captain that he had taken additional DNA swab samples and had kept them for the purpose of doing his own analysis. It wasn’t that he suspected Archer or anyone on the force, of wrong doing, there was just an air about him, something in his mannerisms that said, “I can be bought,” and in this case he didn’t want to have to trust someone he wasn’t one hundred percent sure of.

The ambulance arrived, sans blinking lights or sirens. The unshaven paramedics were unaware and insensitive to the fact that a well loved public servant had been murdered. They swung the rear doors of the “meat wagon” open and pulled out the gurney that the body would be placed upon. They smoked cigarettes and told dirty jokes, flicking the still smoldering butts of their Camels at the base of the old tree in the front yard. When they ran out of jokes the conversation turned to football and women, after which they spoke of basketball and women, and finally they got into a heated debate and almost came to blows over who was the best baseball player ever, raising their voices and cursing loud enough for the neighbors to hear, until Captain Archer felt compelled to stick his head out the front door to tell them to keep it down, whereupon they reverted once again, inevitably, to the topic of women. Movie stars, Sitcom stars, tennis players, TV newscasters, girls they knew in high school, girls they saw at checkout counters in the grocery store, if they were female and rated as anything other than God awful, put a bag over their head because they’re double butt ugly, then they were perfect targets for rude, crude, and socially unacceptable remarks as they waited for homicide to complete their investigation. The boys in homicide were taking a hell of a lot longer than usual today, but at least the cold front had weakened. The sun shone brightly and with it came slightly warmer temperatures, which helped the paramedics accept the lengthy wait for the word that they could enter the crime scene to pick up and transport the stiff to the county morgue.

The Batmobile had just turned the corner, disappearing from sight, when Captain Archer’s phone rang. An unfamiliar voice on the other end asked for the Captain.

“This is Archer,” the Captain replied, wondering who might be asking for him.

“Captain,” the voice began, “I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting me in person previously, but I wanted to call and arrange a meeting with you that I feel could be beneficial to both of us. I understand you recently provided a service for a friend of mine, Carl Grissom, Jr., over at Shrek Enterprises. Now, Carl has suggested to me that you might be interested in doing a job that would pay you in the neighborhood of twenty times what he paid you the other day.”

Archer stepped out the back door of Gordon’s home, away from the rest of the homicide crew, and said in a low, but stern, voice, “I don’t recognize your voice, sir and I don’t know where you got your information. I’m not about to let someone that I have never met speak to me in such a way. I do not accept bribes and I—”

The caller was obviously becoming annoyed and impatient as he cut the Captain’s sentence short. “Nobody said anything about a bribe, Captain Archer. I said I would like for you to do a job for me and I said you would be paid for doing it. Why don’t you at least find out what I’m talking about before you pass judgment? Twenty thousand dollars, Captain. Isn’t that worth at least a meeting? I’ll tell you what, if you would like to hear what I have to say, then be at the old City of Tomorrow amusement park tonight at ten. I’ll come alone and I hope you’ll do the same. If you don’t, then I’ll know you aren’t interested in my little offer.” The anonymous caller hung up abruptly, leaving Captain Archer’s nose a little out of joint. He didn’t like to feel as if he wasn’t in control, but, at the same time, he was curious. This situation warranted further investigation. He would attend this meeting, but he would not go alone. He would have the company of a friend that had helped him out of numerous jams over the years; his Beretta. He patted the gun to reassure himself.

Batman: Revenge
Chapter 13

Vladimir Kolasinski’s house was a small, two-bedroom home with a one-car garage in one of the older, lower middle class areas of town. He had been leasing this residence from a Mrs. Wilma Statemeyer, an elderly, widowed woman who did her best to be a good landlady to the tenants in the five rental homes her late husband had left her. She made sure the heating and plumbing were kept in good working order and she had the pest control service come out every three months, whether the tenants requested it or not.

Speaking to Batman on the phone concerning the habits of her late tenant, she described him as a man of seemingly good character. “I never had to get after him about keeping up the yard and he was always on time with the rent. I wish the police would remove the crime scene ribbon so I could go in and get the place ready to be occupied. Here we are, almost at the end of the month, and I have people on my waiting list that would like to move in right away.”

“I’ll do my best to expedite the removal of the ribbon, Mrs. Statemeyer,” Batman assured her, “after I have had a chance to look around today. How much longer do you think it will be before you can get by with the key?”

“I should be there in no more than thirty minutes. I can’t walk or drive as fast as I used to, you know. It’s funny how age is in such a hurry to slow you down. Everyday, it seems as if it takes a little longer and is a little bit harder to do something that didn’t take but just a moment, yesterday. Why according to my daughter, it takes me twice as long as it used to just to complete a single thought. You know, I remember when . . ."

Batman rolled his eyes as his attention began to wander from the sweet voice that rambled on and on. He hopped out of the Batmobile and began walking around the perimeter of the home as Mrs. Statemeyer continued the marathon lecture she had launched about the incessant onslaught of time and the damage it has done to our society. The fence to the backyard was not locked and Batman began looking around the shrubbery, beneath what must have been one of the bedroom windows. He continued to half listen to the elderly woman, responding with an occasional, “Oh, really?” or a, “My goodness.” As he reached the other window at the back of the house, Batman noticed the lower part of the screen had been pushed outward and hung slightly open.

Just below the window sill, he saw something black, lodged in a neatly trimmed bush. It was an audio cassette tape. Batman reached into the bush, and pulled the tape out, noticing that it did not seem to be old and weather beaten. “How interesting,” Batman said out loud, forgetting completely that Mrs. Statemeyer, whom he had, by now, completely tuned out, was still filibustering on the phone.

“Why yes,” she said, believing the caped crusader was hanging on every word, “it is interesting isn’t it? I was afraid I might be boring you. I want to thank you,
Batman for being such a good listener. My children usually just tune me out.”

“My pleasure Mrs. Statemeyer," Batman said, having no idea what she had been talking about. He wanted to hear what this tape might hold on it. More likely than not it would simply be a mix of music that somebody had tossed, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he listened. He walked back around through the gate to the Batmobile and hopped in. He told Mrs. Statemeyer that he would be waiting in his car for her and that he hoped she wouldn’t mind, but he needed to hang up and make a couple of other calls before she arrived.

As soon as she hung up he plugged the cassette into his audio deck, and waited to see what was on it. There was nothing but the hiss associated with a blank tape. He hit the eject button and looked at the tape. It seemed as if it were near the end of side “A,” so he reinserted the tape and hit fast forward. After a short pause, the tape reached the end of side “A,” automatically changed to side “B” and began to play again. After a couple of seconds more of tape hiss he heard a recorded voice with a hint of a Polish accent in the middle of some kind of statement.

The tape started in the middle of a sentence, “...files on the embalming of Jack Napier. Five thousand dollars in 1989 was a lot of money to just lose some files that would probably never be needed, so naturally I did it. I know I should have done the normal embalming process, but who cared? It wasn’t like he was going to have a beautiful, sensitive, open casket funeral attended by friends and family. So I just crushed the lungs, which seemed to be refilling with air and poked a hole in him to vent the gasses. It was weird because the lungs should have been crushed flat by that fall, but they weren’t. And he smelled like some kind of chemicals mixed with formaldehyde. I put him in a coffin and closed the lid. Now, after fourteen years, I hear from them again. They brought me a corpse that looked a lot like the Joker and asked me to remove the the internal organs. They gave me ten grand. The guy was all white, with the green hair and fingernails, and everything. He even had the same grin that the Joker had. I could smell those same chemicals and I saw somebody had used acid on his fingertips to remove the prints. They wanted me to do it; cut him open and do the embalming process while they watched. Yeah well, whatever. For ten grand, I’d strip naked and do it on TV. That would be great; I could do it on that HBO program, Six Feet Under, yeah, I could be Vlad, the guest embalmer.

Then, when I got finished, he came in with his high society lady, all made up weird and everything with her short spiky hair. I swear it was him, but he can’t be alive. They told me they appreciated my cooperation. They said thanks to me, thousands more would die, but that after that, death would soon become a thing reserved only for the poor. They said Batman would be the last to go, after watching all of his friends die before him. These guys won’t let me live. I know too much, so I am leaving town. I’m going back to the old country. I will mail this tape to the police and they can do ...”

Batman was startled by a knock on the canopy of the Batmobile. He stopped the tape, looked up, and there was Mrs. Statemeyer, smiling and waving. He managed a weak smile in return and opened the canopy.

“Are you ready to have a look inside, Batman?” she asked.

“Yes Ma’am,” he answered, as he stood up and stepped out of the Batmobile. Mrs. Statemeyer looked just as he had expected. In her middle seventies, but still able to get around quite well, her silver hair was put up in a bun and the dark blue dress she wore, trimmed with white lace would have been considered the height of fashion during the Victorian era.

Batman took it upon himself to remove the crime scene ribbon that blocked their entry through the front door. “Batman, you’ll be glad to know,” said Mrs. Statemeyer, “that I don’t allow pets on my properties, so we won’t be attacked by a Rottweiler or German Shepherd when we open the door.”

As she unlocked the front door, Batman replied, “That’s most comforting, Mrs. Statemeyer. I’m particularly interested in seeing the garage area, if I may.”

The interior was relatively clean, but woefully under furnished. There was a card table and two folding, metal chairs in the dining area, a bed, dresser and TV in one of the bedrooms, nothing in the other, and an old couch and a TV in the living room. There were no pictures decorating the walls, except in the living room, where a large map of Poland was pinned up over the couch. By the washer and dryer a mound of dirty clothes was found, which stood next to the door that connected the laundry room to the garage.

In the garage sat the brown, 1995 Toyota Corolla in which Vladimir Kolasinski died. Batman reached down to his utility belt and took a small digital camera out of a case. He backed up to the laundry room entrance, popped up the flash on the camera and took a picture of the car. Next he used the traditional fingerprint powder, but not on the car doors as you might expect. Instead, he went to the garage door handle and sprinkled the powder on it. Here, he found some excellent prints. Who’s they would turn out to be he did not know, but he was sure going to find out. He took several other pictures of various areas in the garage and when he was through looking around there he went to the bedroom that contained the bed and dresser. It was also the bedroom where the screen had been pushed partially open from the inside. Batman raised the window and carefully inspected the entire area, again taking more pictures. Mrs. Statemeyer thankfully stayed out of his way and refrained from distracting his attention with idle chatter, although she watched closely as he went about his business.

Roughly 35 minutes after he had entered the house he was through with his investigation. He thanked Mrs. Statemeyer for her assistance.

She told him she had quite enjoyed watching him do his investigation. “You know, Batman,” she said, “I once thought about a career in law enforcement and have been indirectly involved in it for many years.”

This interested Batman and he turned to face her now before he hopped into the Batmobile. “Oh, really, Mrs. Statemeyer? In what way have you been indirectly involved in law enforcement, and what stopped you from making law enforcement your chosen profession?” he asked.

“Four children,” she answered, “I had to become Police Chief, detective, prosecuting and defense attorney, judge and jury and warden for four of the most rambunctious children you’ve ever seen. They may not have a parade and play the bagpipes for me when I go to meet my maker, but I promise you, I have administered justice for as long, or longer, than anyone you know on Gotham’s payroll.”

Batman smiled broadly and patted her on the shoulder, “If all parents were like
you, Mrs. Statemeyer, there wouldn’t be much need for a person like me. I would take my hat off to you, if I were wearing one.” He turned and hopped back into the Batmobile, started the engine, slid the canopy closed and buckled his seat belt. He saluted her as he backed out onto the street and drove away, careful to obey the 30 mile per hour limit common to residential areas.

~ ~ ~

Blonde, beautiful and intelligent, schooled in the Marshall Arts and Summa Cum Laude graduate of Yale Law School, the former Barbara Wilson, now 27 years old, with the married name of Barbara Lewis, played with her 10 month old son, Alfred Wayne Lewis. Alfred had been named after his Great Uncle, Alfred Pennyworth, who had worked as chief of staff for two generations of the Wayne family. She shook the baby’s rattle in front of him while he watched intently, sucked eagerly on his pacifier and made happy gurgling noises. The curly haired youngster hung on to the railing of his sky blue crib, with one chubby hand, while he reached out for the rattle with the other. “Mommy loves you, Alfred,” she said. “Daddy is going to take care of you for a day or two, while I go to Gotham City to see some old friends and attend Commissioner Gordon’s funeral.

She turned and looked at the emailed note from Bruce Wayne, laying on the dresser, that she had printed. It said, “Commissioner Gordon was killed last night. Poisoned. Somebody put something in his cognac. The Funeral should be Saturday. Please come. I need your help.”

She stood up and handed the rattle to little Alfred, who took it and then gleefully tossed it across the room. Barbara shook her head, “Football, baseball, anything that needs to be thrown, you’re gonna be good at it, kid.” The rattle had come to rest at the foot of a closet door, which she now opened and reached inside to flip a light switch. She pushed a button and there, on the far left in the closet, a panel slid back revealing a costume she had worn proudly until her marriage and motherhood caused her to have to put it away. It was a shiny black costume with a cape resembling a bat’s wings when spread out wide. Her eyes shone as she said, “Let’s see if this thing still fits.”

~ ~ ~

At the same time, in Chicago, 33 year old Dick Grayson, who no longer used the name, “Robin,” but was still as cocky as ever, was on the phone with the Chief of Police. “I should be back, barring unforeseen complications, in 3 or 4 days, Chief. Can you do without “Nightwing” for that long?”

The Chicago Chief of Police, Ted O’Leary, known to his peers as “Taffy,” had done without Nightwing for over thirty years before he came along. He wasn’t particularly happy with being called “Chief,” by this young fellow. He would have much preferred “Chief O’Leary,” or a respectful “Sir,” now and then. He was grateful for the work Nightwing had done for the citizens of Chicago, but he felt, sometimes, like telling Nightwing that they would probably have somehow been able to survive if he had never arrived in their fair city. He resisted the temptation and instead said, “We’ll be fine, son. You go and take care of whatever ya need ta do, and we’ll be glad to see ya when ya get back.”

~ ~ ~

Edward Nygma was as happy as a preacher on Easter Sunday with a huge crowd and an overflowing collection plate as he gazed through the confocal microscope at the Joker’s tissue samples. Being back at work and being appreciated for what he attempted to do was wonderful. Dr. Meridian was wonderful. The guards at the asylum were wonderful. Zoloft was wonderful. The cells he was examining were the most resilient he had ever seen. They resisted any and all attempts to destroy them. When cut in half, they grew back together. When burned, they simply were not consumed. When dipped in acid, they floated about like a boat on a pond, oblivious of the peril they should be in. When placed in a vacuum, they showed no need for oxygen or any kind of atmosphere. He loved this, this was the most fun he had had since the, well he couldn’t remember ever having had this much fun. He could see the protective coating that had soaked into, and over, each individual cell. Now, all that remained was to map out the molecular and sub-atomic structure of its composition and discover how to penetrate and dissolve it.

Dr. Chase Meridian opened the lab door and looked in. “How are you doing Edward? Having fun?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor. Yes, yes, yes! This is an immensely interesting situation. I introduced a non-crystallizing, sub atomic destructuralizer, designed to reanimate the organelles near the cell’s nucleus. Naturally you would think, I mean who wouldn’t, that that would have to be the answer, right? But get this; the cellular morphing tendencies escalate with each interfering neutronic occurrence. I would postulate this project will not reach fruition until infiltration of the cellular shielding is achieved. I’m attempting to achieve entry through the endoplasmic reticulum. What do you think?” The look on his face was eager and hopeful, as if he expected Chase to contribute valuable information.

“Uh, yeah, well, I guess we’ll just have to keep working on it,” Chase answered, her eyes practically glazed over after the technical jargon Edward had just nonchalantly thrown out. “But I’m really glad you’re enjoying this, Edward.”

Harley Quinn was delighted. Emille, the chef who ran the Axis Chemicals Cafe & Cafeteria, had just informed her that the final arrangements for the catering of the Wayne Benefit on Friday had been made. He had gained security clearance for a crew of 8, including himself, who were to report by 2 P.M. that day. They would be delivering much more, however, than just food. They would be serving up a hearty portion of ice cold revenge, courtesy of their boss. Of the eight caterers, seven were experts in demolitions and plastic explosives that had no prior criminal arrest records. The eighth member, Marty, knew nothing about explosives, but happened to be an expert getaway driver, having spent 9 years as a stock car racer on the NASCAR circuit. He had been involved in a number of bank robberies, but had no prior arrests or convictions because he was that good at what he did. Each had been paid $5,000 in up front money for their “expertise”. Their task, if completed successfully, would pay each of them another $25,000.

The C-4, plastic explosives would be sneaked past security by being carefully wrapped and placed in ice chests filled with the finest jumbo shrimp, intended to be used as appetizers. Once inside Wayne Manor, each of the 10 explosive devices would be placed in strategic locations throughout the house, intended to cause the maximum possible amount of structural damage and loss of life. The benefit would be in full swing by 8:30 that evening, when the explosives were to be detonated. It had been discovered, through the research of old county building and development permits, that Wayne Manor rested directly above a cave, which contained passages downward to the lake it overlooked. Harley and Carl had spent three years recruiting and screening these mercenary men of unusual talents. It was to be their job, during the benefit, to find a way down from Wayne Manor, into the caves below. There, they would place three or four of the bombs, in hopes that the collapse of the cave would, in turn, send the entire Wayne Manor compound tumbling into the lake. Talk about making headlines, with all of the Hollywood movie stars in attendance this would be front page news in every newspaper around the world. The three veteran members of the gang, Sammy, Lawrence, and Bruce wouldn’t be able to take part in this little caper, because they were previously convicted felons, and would not be able to pass the FBI background check.

Emille, the chef, had been a cook in the army. He had learned about explosives during his days in the service from his good friend, Sammy, who had later joined the Joker’s gang. Emille had become a chef at an all you can eat restaurant after leaving the armed forces. From there, he moved to a more upscale Italian food establishment in Gotham City, called Giovanni’s. He had built a reputation for being creative in the kitchen, coming up with an amazing array of culinary delights. One day, Harley, Carl, and Sammy, acting on the advice of the Gotham Globe’s fine dining section, decided to have lunch at Giovanni’s and discovered that Sammy’s old friend, Emille, was the Chef.

Harley loved the food and quickly offered to raise Emille’s salary to a truly mouth-watering amount if he would join them and run the Axis Chemicals Cafe & Cafeteria.

~ ~ ~

Dr. Melvin Slaughter was getting tired. It had been a long day, and it wasn’t even two o’clock yet. He had finished the examination of the body of Vladimir Kolasinski, and was not at all convinced that his death had been a simple suicide. There had been extensive bruises around the neck, ribs, and cheek bones. Underneath the fingernails were remnants of cloth and plastic, consistent with the materials used in the interior of the Toyota in which he was found. Dr. Slaughter felt as if the deceased had possibly tried to escape from the automobile, but was somehow prevented by something or someone. The cause of death was undeniably carbon monoxide poisoning, but in his professional opinion, it was not a suicide.

The post mortem examination of Commissioner Gordon’s body showed no bruises. There was not a trace of cellular residue under his fingernails from a possible attacker. It was clear that asphyxiation had been induced, most likely by a poison, possibly strychnine, or sodium fluoracetate. Crime lab photos taken before the body was removed from the couch, clearly showed the bent over posture, staring eyes and pained expression on the face, consistent with the symptoms of either one of the two poisons. After running a gas chromatography and an ion-trap mass spectrometry, which ruled out strychnine, Dr. Slaughter attributed the cause of death to ingestion of sodium fluoracetate, a poison that was completely odorless, and tasteless, yet so lethal that one teaspoon held enough poison to kill 100 people.

Dr. Slaughter, discussing the findings concerning the Commissioner’s death with Batman, pointed out that throughout history poison had been a common way for people to kill themselves. It was far less common, however, for it to be the weapon of choice for a common murderer. In cases where poison was used in a homicide, the suspect was usually either incredibly stupid, or brilliant. Batman was relatively sure that the person behind this was the latter of the two, although there was no indication that the murderer was trying to escape detection. In this case, Batman felt, it seemed the opposite was more likely. Batman also told Dr. Slaughter that he suspected the evidentiary materials he had found while at Kolasinski’s residence would link the two homicides to the same assailant, and he was sure that the assailant would prove to be the
Joker, or members of his gang.


Batman: Revenge
Chapter 14

At the abandoned, City of Tomorrow, amusement park the gang was gathered around the boss, who had just told them what their specific jobs would be at the Wayne Manor benefit. “Race” would stay in the black Impala, ready to drive. It was hoped that he wouldn’t have to use his racing experience in a desperate getaway attempt. If everything went according to plan, they all expected to drive out slowly, under no suspicion whatsoever. After planting a portion of the C-4, “Sparky” was to assist Emille, once the guests began to arrive, by serving in the buffet area. Cody and Tina were to help out with placing the C-4 in several areas, after which they, also, would work at the buffet area and as time neared for the explosives to be set off, they would leave through the back door and remain in the van where the remote detonator would be. Charlie, “Boom,” and Jamal, would find a way to get down to the cave, below, and would plant explosives where they would do the most damage. They were experienced at finding hidden entrances to underground hideaways and anticipated no problems in finding a useable entrance. Everyone was to meet by 9:55 P.M. at the van and if anyone in Wayne Manor asked where they were going, they were to say they needed to go out to the van to bring in some more jumbo shrimp.

Before anyone left, as the meeting was ending, Bruce Segelski asked, “What was it like, boss, when you fell? They took you to the morgue and then to the funeral home. Tell us what you remember.” Sammy was the next to ask a question, raising his hand like a kid in school. He wondered what the Joker’s thoughts had been when he saw the light, as his coffin opened for the first time in fourteen years? Everyone leaned forward, waiting to hear what the Joker would say.

The Joker looked at Bruce and Sammy with a revolted, pained expression, wishing they hadn’t asked anything. He didn’t want to tell his story. He certainly didn’t want a bonding session. He didn’t really care about any of these people. He only cared about them as long as they were doing exactly what he expected of them. The minute that stopped was the minute they could all stop breathing as far as he was concerned.

He stood up and looked around at the anxious faces. It disgusted him and he let them know it by waving his arms and shouting, “This isn’t the God Damned Mickey Mouse Club, with Cubby and Annette. We aren’t going to hold hands, toast marsh mellows, tell spooky stories around the campfire and sing Cum by Yah, My Lord. You people are paid to plant explosives, and you are being paid damn well. That’s all you need to know. Now, get outta here, but be ready on Friday!” Everyone got up and hurried out the door with no further encouragement needed, except for Harley and Carl.

Carl stood up slowly, while Harley remained seated. Carl said, “You were a little hard on the crew, Joker. They idolize you, man.”

“And well they should,” the Joker asserted. “If anybody else in history could have done what I have, they would’ve been considered a God,” he paused and added with a sly chuckle, “or maybe a Demon.” He pointed at both of them with a fiery look in his green eyes and said, “How do either of you know that I am not one of the two?” With a wild, wide eyed, look on his face he exclaimed, “How do you know that the Devil himself didn’t crawl into Jack Napier’s body when he fell into that vat of chemicals? Or maybe it happened as the Joker lay on that asphalt, after falling almost twenty stories from that helicopter? I wasn’t going to go over it all with the crew, because they’d be gawking, asking questions and going oooooh and ahhhhh, but I’ll let the two of you in on my little story and then, if you want to, you can pass along whatever you feel necessary to the rest of the boys and girls.”

Carl sat back down and listened attentively, along with Harley, to the Joker’s tale of his demise and miraculous survival. “That fucking stone gargoyle that Batman tied to my ankle while I tried to climb that rope ladder must have weighed 500 pounds. When it broke free from the cathedral roof and was hanging from my ankle, I knew I was going to fall. I remember screaming and grabbing at thin air as I fell and waiting for the impact with the ground. Falling twenty stories should have killed any mortal man. The coroner’s report said my skull was cracked like an egg. After that everything was pretty hazy for a long time. It was like being in a long, bad dream and at the same time overdosing on some incredible, thought scrambling narcotic. I suppose my brain was so badly smashed it kept me from being able to think clearly. And the headaches, you wouldn’t believe the headaches. But little by little my thoughts became less scrambled. Eventually, I found that I could think again, but everything around me was pitch black and there was no room to move. Now, if you have a touch of claustrophobia I wouldn’t recommend lying in a coffin for fourteen years. It requires a fair amount of self-control to keep from losing your grip. Once in a while you might hear a rodent, or snake, burrowing near your coffin, but there is no light, no air, pretty much no sound and no room to move. I found it interesting that I didn’t require air or food. I still don’t have to have them. Now they’ve become like fine wine. You find life more enjoyable with it, but you can live without it. How? I don’t know. I just know that I can. From the moment I could think clearly again I thought about one thing.” He stopped for a second or two and stared deeply into the eyes of Carl, first, and then Harley before reverently whispering, “Revenge.”

He said it as if it were the sweetest word in the world, and then let the word burrow into the minds of his followers for a moment before continuing. “With each passing minute, it became clearer to me that I should have killed Bruce Wayne as a boy, along with his parents, before he could grow up to be Batman. I will ruin his life. I will kill everyone he cares about, in the most inhumane way and then, oh yes, and then I will have my revenge on him. He licked his unnaturally red, repulsively stretched lips as if he were parched and dry and that the accomplishment of his wicked plan was the only way to quench the thirst within him. “I will drown him in my own immortalizing chemicals and bury him, just as he buried me. Then I’ll go by and piss on his grave every day,” he reached down and portrayed the act of grabbing his “Johnson” and spraying the grave of his nemesis, “knowing he’s down there, trapped, alone, feeling responsible for the deaths of everyone he loved. I may, however, let Vicki Vale live, as long as she begs forgiveness and consents to follow in my footsteps and become like me,” he folded his hands as if to pray, “pure, white, and immortal.” Again he paused several seconds for dramatic effect, bowing his head and shutting his eyes; relishing the excellence and impact of his own theatrical abilities. When his eyes opened he was ready to get back to business. Grinning an especially evil grin, (which was hard for him not to do) The Joker crowed, “How ironic that I should end up with Batman’s babe!”


The Joker had been pacing back and forth as he spoke, but now relaxed and sat in a chair at the table along with Harley and Carl before continuing. “I plan to tell the world that immortality can be theirs if they will follow me into the vat of immortality. They don’t have to go to heaven or hell. They can exist; notice I didn’t say live forever, here on this earth and I will be their savior. Harley and Carl, you are to be my high priests. Salvation won’t be cheap! We’ll be the wealthiest Gods in the history of man and guess what? We can stay in business forever!” The Joker stood again, with his hands on his hips, looking from Carl to Harley and back to Carl, again. “Well, are we in the religion business, or would you rather die? Take your time; I don’t want you to rush this decision. I won’t need an answer for at least another five seconds!”

“So what’s it going to be Carl?” the Joker asked. “Are you with me, or would you rather join your dearly departed father?” Impatiently, he tapped his foot.

Grissom turned and began to leave the room. He clinched his fists in an attempt to control his rage. His father had died after being shot repeatedly by the Joker. He did not want to experience the same fate.

Harley observed the tension on Carl’s face and said, “Oooooh, I think you hit a nerve, Joker.”

“Carl, I don’t believe I heard your answer,” the Joker said, as he pulled a double shot derringer out of his pants pocket.

“What choice do I have?” Grissom shrugged and turned. “I’m in, Joker. I’ll do whatever you say.”

“A wise choice Carl,” the boss nodded in approval, “you seem to consistently make better decisions than your late father, even if it does take a little prodding, sometimes. I think old Dad would have really been proud of you.”

Looking appreciatively at the silver derringer, the Joker said, “You know, I actually shot Bruce Wayne with this derringer, fourteen years ago at Vicki Vale’s apartment. It was a nice place as I remember; lots of space.” He waved the gun in the air and continued, “Harley kept it in storage, for me. Thank you darling,” he blew her a kiss, which she reached up and caught. “Sadly,” he continued, “Old Brucie must have been wearing a bulletproof vest, or maybe he slipped something under his jacket that stopped the bullet. Too bad. Oh well, no use crying over unspilled blood.” He slipped the derringer back into a pocket and crossed the room to where Harley stood. He smiled as sweetly as his frozen face would allow. Reaching out, he caressed her cheek and slowly ran the back of a pale hand under her chin and down the delicate curve of her thin neck.

“Ahhh, my little cutthroat, Daddy’s naughty, spankable little irrepressible witch with a capital B; You’ve done a commendable job of following the orders and plans I left for you. Carl, if you wouldn’t mind leaving the room, I’d like to show Harley some special appreciation, or, on second thought, Carl, if you’d like to stay and watch, that’s up to you. After all, good management doesn’t allow their top people to feel left out.” With a lecherous gleam in his eye, he winked to make his point more clear.

** Image ID #1773274 Unavailable **

BATMAN: REVENGE

Chapter 15

Captain Benjamin Archer flipped open his ringing cell phone, which always rang at the worst possible moment. Actually, it just rang constantly and there never really was a good time. This time it was Dr. Melvin Slaughter, who was calling to let him know the results on the Kolasinski case and the preliminary results on the Commissioner’s cause of death. Archer had just been speaking to a young female officer, Sheryl Wilkinson, who was requesting a change of duty. She had been on the vice squad for the past six months and wanted to be put on day patrol, in a squad car. She felt her personal life was suffering, as the late hours she had been working and the nature of the job had caused her boyfriend to leave her. Captain Archer was being his most charming self as Wilkinson seemed as if she might be the type to go below and beyond the belt of duty, to get what she wanted. She waited impatiently; twirling her red, shoulder length hair around her right index finger while the Captain spoke to Dr. Slaughter.

“Sodium Flouroacetate, what the hell is that?” the Captain asked. While he listened to the explanation, officer Wilkinson reached into her purse and pulled out a small mirror and a tube of ruby red lipstick, which she now liberally applied to her full, pouty lips. She was a very attractive woman, Archer thought, as he began to have trouble focusing on the technical information Dr. Slaughter was relaying. Wilkinson pressed her lips together a couple of times and then used her little finger to remove a speck of red from one of her teeth. Satisfied with the way she looked, she put the mirror and lipstick back in her purse, looked up at the Captain, smiled and batted her mascara laden eyelashes at him. Her eyes were as green as emeralds. Archer had completely lost track of what Dr. Slaughter was saying by this time and interrupted him by saying, “Can you e-mail me with the rest of the details, doctor? Something has just come up, which requires immediate attention.” Archer hung up the phone and smiled his warmest, most understanding smile. “Now, my dear, how can I be of service?” he asked.

Sheryl told him she hoped he would not let her non- regulation attire sway his opinion of her ability to perform her duties properly. She was dressed for her night shift, as a part of the sting operation to arrest prostitutes and solicitors of prostitution on the old East side of town. Her red skirt was skin tight and short enough to raise the eyebrows of any man who wasn’t blind, and Archer was most definitely not blind. The daringly low cut blouse, fish-net hose and stiletto high heels were the finishing touches to the illusion.

Captain Archer’s self control and common sense were now nowhere to be found. Weakly, Archer said, “I can’t just go changing everybody’s assignments whenever they get tired of them, now, can I, Ms. Wilkinson?”

“No, of course not, Captain. But you really should consider observing me on duty tonight and doing a field evaluation, which could make it easier to process my request. I’ll be working on the lower East side, near the entrance to the old, abandoned City of Tomorrow, amusement park. I’ll be at the corner of Seahorse and Riptide Boulevard. About ten would be a good time for you to come, don’t you think? Don’t you want to come? Hmmm?”

Archer was shocked. He had already been invited to be at the City of Tomorrow, tonight at ten, by the mysterious caller that had a “job” for him to do. Suspicion registered on his face, as he raised an eyebrow and nodded, “Okay, in the interest of evaluating a fellow officer and to investigate the efficiency of our current sting operation, I suppose I could be there tonight, around ten.”

“Oh, good,” Wilkinson said, as she got up to leave. “You won’t leave disappointed.” She puckered up those big, fat, red lips and blew him a kiss, “Just practicing for the job, tonight,” she said, and then for fun, saluted. She wiggled her way out the door and was gone, taking virtually all of the Captain’s better judgment with her.

Archer decided he would not meet the anonymous caller with the supposedly deep pockets, but this young vixen with the body of an angel, or was it a devil, certainly merited his attention.

~ ~ ~

“I hadn’t noticed this before,” Vicki said, as she studied one of the photographs she had taken during her tour of Axis Chemicals. “What do you make of this, Richards?” She handed him a picture which showed a huge, completely enclosed, industrial vat behind a glass window. Three workers appeared in the picture, seemingly checking readouts at a console. One of the three workers wore a surgical mask and gloves. The portion of the face, which was not concealed behind the white mask, was also white, bone white, and after looking more closely, those were not gloves, they were white hands.

Richards took the picture and held a magnifying glass up to it. He squinted, as he examined the white face of the central figure. “We need to get this down to the lab so that we can enhance this photo and run FBI matches on the other two in the picture.”

Vicki agreed and added, “If that isn’t the Joker, somebody's trying to make people think it’s him.” They left the dark room and headed to the elevator, which would
carry them to the main computer console and the media lab in the heart of the Bat cave.

At the Gotham Globe, Knox was finding out that the police department was taking security very seriously for the Wayne Foundation Benefit. “That’s right, I need clearance for two reporters from the Gotham Globe. What do you mean who wants it? I want it - Alexander Knox! Are you guys going to be doing cavity searches or what? I have an invitation, I’m just trying to get clearance for an additional photographer! Geez, you’d think the President was going to be there. What do you mean, the TV President? Oh, yeah, from West Wing, Charlie. No? Oh, right, that’s his son. Yeah, I remember, he was a deputy mayor on Spin City. So, Martin Sheen is coming? Well, that’s close to the real deal. Who else did you hear about? From All My Children? She’s been on the show since forever! Look, normally I would just ask Commissioner Gordon, but that’s not possible now, so can I get a little help, here? Okay, the guy who’s getting in as my guest will be Justin Henderson, and then the other guy that I need to a press pass for is Ralph Rude. You guys have run checks on both of them a number of times in the past, so there shouldn’t be any problem. Yes, of course they will both have their press I.D. badges. Yes, of course I’m going to have mine with me, too. Last question, do you know roughly how many RSVP’s have been received so far? Almost 1,900? I think that’s close to a record! Thanks, I’ll see you there!” He hung up, tapped his cigar ashes into the tray, laid his cigar down in it, leaned back and clasping his hands behind his head, said, “Yes sir, this is going to be one whale of a show!”

Dr. Meridian was excited, but not as excited as Edward, who was literally bouncing up and down. “Edward, calm down for just a minute. Now what makes you think you’ve figured out how to defeat the cellular shield?” She was braced for an answer she knew she probably wouldn’t understand.

Edward pointed at the confocal microscope, “Take a look, take a look and see for Yourself! Hurry, before they’re all dead!”

Dr. Meridian squinted into the high-powered equipment and saw cells literally decaying before her eyes. It looked like a time lapse photography trick, but this was no trick. To the untrained eye of an uneducated observer, it looked like cells turning to fine particles of sand, or dust. She blinked her eye to be sure of what she was seeing and took another look. The last of the cells shrunk, its walls literally caving in upon the inner nuclei, leaving nothing but an inert speck of dust.

Edward said, “It was a simple case of reanimation through reintroduction of standard cellular rhythms, using a piece of equipment I pioneered, called an omni linear, sub-cellular phase accelerator. When the cells were forced to resume their normal cadence, they were forced to expend any nutrients they retained and shed the invasive chemical coating, like a snake sheds it’s skin. Having done that, they reverted to their predisposed tasks. Now in this case, the task, based on the inflicted damage and forced inability to replace lost nutrients, was to die. Death is a natural activity for all cells, you see. The chemical coating had disrupted the ability of the cells to reach maturity and become obsolete. They were prevented from achieving their final objective. I have freed them. It’s kind of touching, really.” Edward looked as if he might shed a tear.

Chase just wanted to get this information into the right hands, right away. She grabbed a phone and started dialing, “We need to let the police know,” she said.

Edward stopped her momentarily with a question she didn’t immediately fully understand. “Dr. Meridian, do you think it would be considered in poor taste if I wore
green at the appreciation dinner that will no doubt be given in my honor? And, could I be allowed to see a hair stylist, I just don’t feel comfortable with long, dull brown. I’d like something short and more vibrant, more striking, okay?”

Chase wasn’t really paying attention to what Edward was asking for, and said, “We’ll see,” while she waited for someone to answer the ringing phone at the police station. Then of course, after the call was answered she had to be transferred to the proper department and then to the right individual. In the absence of Commissioner Gordon the majority of the “urgent,” high priority calls were being transferred to Captain Archer.

“Captain Archer, here. May I help you?”

“Captain Archer, this is Dr. Chase Meridian. I am a criminal psychologist currently monitoring the activities of Edward Nygma while he works on the analysis of the strange chemicals that turned Jack Napier into the Joker. We wanted you to know we have a major development here that Batman needs to know about, right away.”

“May I ask, doctor, what makes this information so urgent?” Archer asked.

“Edward has found a way to induce decomposition of the Joker’s cells. Batman must be alerted immediately,” Chase asserted.

“Dr. Meridian, I have no reason to think that the Joker is involved in any of the crimes we have experienced over the past week. He died fourteen years ago. What may be happening is that some of his old gang is trying to get even, but let me assure you, that it isn’t the Joker. You have either been misled or misinformed. Did Batman himself tell you it was the Joker who was behind all of this?”

Chase could see she was getting nowhere, “Batman is trying to be prepared for all eventualities Captain, no matter how bizarre they may seem. I would have thought you would be in favor of that kind of preparedness, however, it seems as if…”

“Now wait a minute, doctor,” Archer realized he needed to backtrack. “I never said I didn’t want us to be prepared. I will pass along your message to Batman, and then he can do whatever he feels is prudent. I know you are doing your part as a good citizen of Gotham City and I want you to know that I appreciate that. Support from people like you is of paramount importance to our department. I want to apologize if I offended you in any way.”

“Well, okay, Captain,” Chase accepted the apology. “Just make sure Batman gets the information, please.”

“It will be the next call I make, doctor, you can count on it,” Archer lied. He sounded sincere, but he had absolutely no intention of calling Batman. He hung up and said, “Caped crusader, you can kiss my, as yet, unrecommended ass.” Archer got up, and stormed out of his office, bent out of shape about Batman still failing to recommend him as Gordon’s successor, but halfway down the hall he began to remember the interesting encounter he had planned for the evening, at ten, and that considerably brightened his attitude. He figured he would drop by his favorite steak house on the way home and have a small salad, a nice teriyaki rib eye and a big fat baked potato with everything on it. Then, later in the evening, about ten, he would have his dessert. A smile spread across his face.

Bruce got home about eight and Vicki was thrilled to see him at a decent hour. They didn’t talk about anything to do with the Joker. Instead, they discussed the
entertainment for the Wayne Foundation Benefit. Bruce liked Prince. Vicki wasn’t wild about him, but they both liked the Brian Setzer Orchestra. They talked about their wedding plans, decided they would name their firstborn son Thomas, after Bruce’s father, and just enjoyed being with each other.

Andre had prepared a wonderful pork loin roast with apples and raisins and candied yams with cinnamon and brown sugar. They ate by candlelight and drank wine until they were feeling giddy. As they walked up the stairs, stopping to kiss with each couple of steps, Vicki reminded Bruce of the first time they slept together, fourteen years earlier. She had lost a shoe on the way up these very stairs. Bruce picked her up now, smiling slyly, saying, “We can’t take a chance on losing another shoe, now, can we?” and carried her upstairs, to the bedroom.

At ten that evening, Captain Archer arrived at the intersection of Seahorse and Riptide, on the lower East side of town. Thirty years ago this part of town had been a
thriving area of commerce with a large number of retail establishments and eateries. Now, warehouses occupied the majority of the area, with a few old apartment buildings here and there. After dinner, Archer had gone home to freshen up, after which he picked up some flowers for Ms. Wilkinson from the floral department in a grocery store. He was pleased to see the young officer dressed in her streetwalker outfit, standing under a street light as he parked in a seldom used parking lot across from the City of Tomorrow. As he got out of his car he saw her walking briskly along the other side of the street, towards the entry to the old, abandoned amusement park. Several of the street lamps had burned out, making it difficult to follow her progress and he lost sight of her momentarily. She reappeared, waving to him from the mouth of a 20 foot tall laughing clown head, which had once served as the park’s point of entry. When Archer saw it, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

The enormous paper machete figure, faded and weather beaten by time and the elements, was white with green hair and red lips. It looked unnervingly similar to a
certain criminal that was in the news again, lately. The turnstile was rusted and difficult to turn. It squeaked out its complaint at being forced to move, as the slightly overweight Captain squeezed his way through. Archer didn’t see Wilkinson, as he surveyed the dark and eerie landscape filled with the ghosts of forgotten good times.

He stumbled several times as he followed a cracked and tilted cement walkway that led him deeper into the heart of the gloomy park. Weeds had grown several feet high between the cracks and shrubbery, which at one time had been neatly trimmed, but now added to the macabre scene, with gnarled, twisted vines and bushes growing uncontrolled in all directions.

The park was alive with visitors tonight, although few of them seemed to be human. The identifiable disturbances included the sound of dogs chasing stray cats that were in search of the rats, which scurried about under the brush, going from building to building in search of food. He looked around in the dim light, swearing that something, or someone, was watching his progress. He patted his Beretta for reassurance. He didn’t hear or see anything to confirm his suspicions, but he could definitely feel it. Over twenty years of experience and instinct told him that something was wrong here. He rounded a corner and was relieved to finally see a faint light coming from one lone structure. It had been a fun house, the house of mirrors, whose distorted reflections, tilted floors and walls had delighted thousands of Gothamites during the years that the park had been open. He hoped that he, too, would be delighted soon in that very same house.

“So that’s where you’re hiding,” he said, as he unbuttoned the leather cover that secured his Beretta, just in case, and headed for the door. “Come to Papa, Sheryl.”

The instant he stepped inside, Bruce and Lawrence, who had been strengthened by fourteen years of daily workouts and weightlifting in prison, grabbed him from both sides. Although he struggled mightily to reach his Beretta, they were far too strong for him to overpower. Although the room was poorly lit, in the reflection of the mirrors he saw Sheryl Wilkinson struggling with a man in a purple, pinstriped suit. Archer heard her say, “I did what you wanted me to do. I got him here, so pay me and let me go!”

Another voice was heard, asking Wilkinson, “What about the diary? Did you do that part of the job, Sheryl?”

Archer immediately recognized the voice to be that of the mystery man with the deep pockets that had wanted him to do a job. He also got a better glimpse of the face, now. It was bone white. As the cold realization of who it was swept over him, he increased his efforts to reach his weapon. A sharp, quick pain at the base of his skull put an end to his resistance. He collapsed, fully realizing in his last conscious moment that he was in the worst jam of his career and was most likely about to be killed.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious, but he knew his head hurt like Hell. His vision was blurry and was made worse by a bright lamp which had been set in front of him, shining directly into his eyes. As he became aware of his surroundings once again, he realized he wasn’t on the floor, he was in a chair, bound tightly with rope. He heard Sheryl cry out and turned his head quickly to the left, towards the sound. He almost passed out again from the resulting pain and nausea left over from the concussion he had suffered. Footsteps approached him now from the other direction and he turned, more slowly this time, to his right. What he saw was a pale, bleached, white face, with the most hideous, distorted grin that he had ever imagined in his worst nightmares, studying him with strange, yellowish-green eyes. The Joker stood less than one foot in front of him.

“Well, well, well,” the eerie figure began, “if there’s one thing I like it’s punctuality, and you were here right on time, Captain Archer.” The face came even closer now, less than six inches away. Archer thought it might have had something to do with the blow to his head, but he swore he could smell formaldehyde and some other kind of chemical. He had smelled that smell, somewhere else, but where and when?

“What are you going to do with me?” Archer asked. He grimaced with pain at the effort it took to speak. Another wave of nausea rolled over him as the sound of his own words reverberated in his head.

“What we do with you, you selfish, self centered, skirt chasing, easily bribed, on the take, poor excuse for a public servant, depends entirely on your actions over the next few minutes. I have an axe to grind with a certain caped crime fighter who seems intent on doing me harm. Now, of course, I already know the latest gossip, but all you have to do to convince me to spare your life, as well as the life of the little lady, is to tell me if you’ve heard anything new about the research on the chemicals that keep me ticking.”

Archer may have taken a few dollars under the table during his years as a public servant, but he wasn’t about to help this monster and he told him as much. “Go back to hell, you son of a bitch, I’m not about to help you, in any way!”

The Joker put his hand over his heart and acted hurt, “Oh dear, I was so hoping that Commissioner Gordon’s funeral would be the only one I would have to attend over the next week. You know the cost of flowers these days is just outrageous. But it seems as if there will be two more funerals coming up, not to mention the disgracing of your name. Sammy, bring me Sheryl’s diary!”

Sammy brought the policewoman’s purse and held it out. There was a disappointed look on the Joker’s face as he shook his head and said, “I didn’t ask to see the ladies purse, did I? I asked to see her diary!” He snatched the purse away from Sammy and began to dig in it, looking for the diary he had requested. He glanced up at Archer, apologetically, as he tossed items from the purse in every direction. “I’m sorry, it’s just so hard to get good help these days. If you want something done right, you either have to stop sub-contracting, or you have to do it yourself. Ah, here it is, the personal diary of Sheryl Wilkinson, currently working with the vice squad, which she hates, according to her entry here, on October 27. She says she’s going to try to arrange a transfer to the day shift. Hmmmm, this next entry is soooo sad. She says Commissioner Gordon was a good man, and had a reputation for being understanding. She doesn’t know whom she will have to see about her transfer now that he’s dead.” the Joker licked his thumb, turned the page with it, and continued, “Well, this doesn’t sound very flattering, Captain Archer.
It says she got to see you today and you told her you would see about her transfer if she would… tsk, tsk, tsk, this is not the kind of thing I would want to see in the newspaper. What do you think, Captain, do you think you could become Commissioner, if this became public knowledge? How about this part, where it says you grabbed her and fondled her? You even forced her to…Oh, the shame. I mean this isn’t some White House intern were talking about here, this is a respectable young police woman, from right here in Gotham City!”

The Joker held the diary up so that Archer could see it, and pointed to the passage he wanted the Captain to read. Archer blinked in the glaring light, trying to clear his vision. “I can’t read it. I’m having double vision from that knock on my head, but that isn’t what happened, I never…”

The pale villain interrupted, “Here’s a potential Gotham Globe story you’d like to avoid, Captain.” He mimicked the deep voice of a TV newscaster, saying, “Today, the diary of slain police officer, Sheryl Wilkinson, was found along with the murder weapon, a police issued Beretta, registered to Captain Benjamin Archer. The gun was covered with Archer’s fingerprints.” He returned to his normal voice, and said, “That’s a nasty enough story, but wait ‘til they read the excerpts from this diary.” He turned away from Archer, put a white hand up to his mouth as if he were holding a megaphone, and shouted, “Extra, extra, read all about it!” Turning back, he chuckled wickedly, “Hoo boy, that’s going to sell some papers!”

“Where do you get this slain police officer crap? I haven’t killed anyone and I’m not about to,” Archer roared. Struggling in vain with his bonds, he grimaced again at the pain in his skull. Again, Archer heard Sheryl, wrestling with someone behind several of the fun house, full length mirrors. There was the sound of a forceful slap, followed by another. Her muffled cries led Archer to believe she had been gagged.

The sounds caught the Joker’s attention momentarily, and then he turned back to Archer, “Earlier, I mentioned to you, that I wanted the latest information on how the research team was doing on finding a way to stop me. I haven’t been given the information that I requested, so I guess I’ll have to kill Ms. Wilkinson to show you that I really am, pardon the term, dead serious.” Nonchalantly, the JOKER removed a pair of rubber surgical gloves from his coat pocket and put them on, after which, he held up the Beretta, which had been removed from the Captain’s shoulder holster. “Sammy, bring the girl in here.”

“No, wait!” Archer pleaded, “I’ll tell you everything I know. I got a call from Dr. Chase Meridian, about a breakthrough in their research. She wanted me to tell Batman, but I didn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell you, just don’t kill Wilkinson!”

Anxious to hear Archer’s news, the Joker put down the gun and encouraged him to continue, “I’m all ears, Captain. Tell me absolutely everything that you know. All is not yet lost, Benjamin. You can still come away from this meeting with a chance to be the next Commissioner. With my support, you would be a formidable candidate, indeed. Of course, if I think you’re lying the girl dies, and so do you.”

“I got a call around six from a Dr. Meridian, a criminal psychologist monitoring the activities of Edward Nygma, who is heading up the research project, studying the
chemicals that made you what you are. She said they have now found a way to get your cells to decompose. She said they had to get the news to Batman. Well, I’m not exactly a fan of the Batman, so I sat on the news. He doesn’t know, yet.”

The Joker backed up a few steps and turned away as the look on his face changed from intense interest to one of confusion, worry, and deep, desperate thought. He paced to his left and right, in front of Archer, as he considered the ramifications of this new development and how he should respond. After what seemed to be an eternity, but in reality was only two or three minutes, he stopped pacing and turned back towards Archer. He walked up, bent down into the harsh light at Archer’s eye level, and brought his face to within six inches of the tip of Archer's nose. Gone was the look of a confused, or worried, man, trying to cope with a bad situation. The confused look had been replaced, by a sly, confident look that revealed the most evil of intentions.

“Now correct me if I’m wrong, won’t you Commissioner?” he emphasized the word Commissioner, saying it slowly, drawing it out, closely watching to see what, if
any reaction registered on Archer’s face. “Batman does not yet know of this miraculous breakthrough that Dr. Meridian told you about?”

“That’s right,” the Captain replied. Archer attempted to strengthen his precarious position with the Joker by offering further proof of his motivation for not informing
Batman of the news. “I’ve been expecting Batman to recommend me as the best candidate to replace Gordon, but it’s beginning to look like the bastard has something against me. Gordon had told me he was going to retire soon and I’m sure he must have told Batman I was the best man for the job. Gordon and I had been friends for years. I’ve already alerted a number of my friends and backers that I would probably be promoted at tomorrow’s City Council meeting, but if that were going to happen somebody surely would have said something to me. If he could somehow be there I can tell you what Gordon would say if I get passed over on this deal. He’d say, 'Damned embarrassing,' that’s what he’d say, and he would be right. If Batman passes up the chance to recommend me, that will be a slap in my face and, indirectly, a slap in Gordon’s face, as well! I can hear Gordon now, saying, 'Damned embarrassing, Benjamin, damned embarrassing.'”

The Joker listened attentively, watching Archer’s face and eyes for signs of deception as he asked, “How long do you think it will be, Commissioner, before Dr.
Meridian gets the message about Nygma’s progress to the winged freak?”

A faint ray of hope began to glimmer in Archer’s mind as he answered, “I don’t think she has his phone number. Very few people do. Commissioner Gordon had it, but he never gave it to me. I could rummage around in his office for it as soon as I get back. His secretary, Ms. Thornberry, thinks I am going to be her new boss anyway, so she may even help me look for it.”

“I’ve got one other question for you, Commissioner Archer,” again he emphasized the word, commissioner, “Who besides you, Dr. Meridian and this Edward Nygma
fellow would know about the dramatic research breakthrough?”

Archer thought about it for a few seconds and answered, “I don’t think anyone else would know. And the only one who would understand it right now is Edward Nygma.”

The Joker stood up, smiling, as he said, “I want to thank you, Commissioner, for being so forthright and dependable this evening. I believe that we may have established the start of a long and rewarding relationship. You can count on my support just as long as I can count on yours. I had spoken to you, you may recall, on the phone previously, about a certain job I need done, and I had promised $20,000.00 in payment. Well, that offer still stands.” The man with the permanently frozen, red grin reached into his left pants pocket and pulled out a sizable bundle of cash. He waved it in front of the Captain and asked, “Did you bring your social security card and driver’s license? We have to have proof of American citizenship or your legal right to work in our country before we can put you on the company payroll,” He chuckled at his little joke, then turned serious again and got back in Archer’s face. “I need Edward Nygma dead. Do that little job for me and you will definitely get the Commissioner’s job and an additional twenty grand.”

“The Commissioner’s position is not yours to give,” Archer asserted. And I’ve never murdered anyone, and I’m not about to start.”

Anger flashed in the resurrected killer’s eyes and he called out, “Sammy, bring me the girl!” He turned back to Archer and glared at him. “I’m disappointed in you, Captain! I thought you were smarter than that. But I guess you’re just a gumshoe detective that worked his way up the ladder through attrition, rather than by your own initiative. Did they just run out of other donkeys to pin the tail on, is that how you got to be a Captain?”

Sammy came around the corner with Wilkinson, her face was red and puffy from being hit. Blood trickled from her left nostril and she seemed weak and rubbery legged from the combination of the abuse and the fact that the damned stiletto high heels were just not that easy to walk in, especially with her hands still tied behind her. When she saw the Joker, she started to shout, “Pay me my God damned money, you sick piece of shit! I did what you asked me to do!” She whirled around unexpectedly and delivered a karate kick to Sammy’s chest, which sent him careening into one of the many mirrors that surrounded them. It toppled over and shattered as he fell on top of it. She recovered her balance, tossed her head back to get her long, red hair out of her eyes, and turned to face the Joker just in time to see the Beretta pointed directly at her.

With a twinkle of anticipation in his eye, the Joker asked, “Did you ever dance with the devil by the pale moonlight?” She looked confused for a moment, then regained her composure and charged, with the intent of delivering a frontal kick. He fired the gun three times, at a distance of less than six feet from his target. The first two shots, both in the chest, stopped the charge cold, dropped Wilkinson to her knees and left her gasping for breath. The next shot, to her forehead, sent her sprawling backwards, where she crashed to the floor and lay in a growing pool of blood. Her right foot twitched several times and then was still.

The Joker stood over Wilkinson’s body, staring down into the now lifeless, green eyes that gazed upward into eternity. Sammy picked himself up off the floor, his face contorting in a pained expression as he rubbed his chest and complained, “The bitch damn near put her heel through my chest, Joker!”

Turning slowly back to Archer, who sat trembling with rage, helpless to do anything other than watch, the Joker said, “You just committed a murder, Captain Archer! Sheryl implicated you in her diary and this gun has your prints all over it, not mine. Now, let’s pretend I’m Bob Barker on The Price is Right. We can play this one of three ways. If you go with what’s behind door number one, I can see to it that the evidence reaches the authorities right away and you can look forward to a short lifetime of intimacy with big, nasty, muscle-bound, hairy-assed, hairy-chested criminals with baaaad breath." The Joker paused, green eyebrows arched, waiting to see if the Commissioner would respond. "Behind door number two is a long life as the Commissioner of Gotham City’s police force, filled with all the perks that come with the position. Naturally, I'll hold onto the diary and the Berretta, until such time as you disappoint me and force me to use them. Or perhaps you feel too guilt ridden to go on, and would rather just go with door number three, where I use your own gun to put you out of your misery, right here. Which is it going to be? Door number one, door number two, or door number three?”

Archer knew the Joker wanted to use him to get to Edward Nygma, so he didn’t feel as if he was about to be killed, or turned in as a murderer, at least not yet. “Do I get to spin the wheel at the end of the show if I take door number two, for now?” Archer asked.

“Listen closely, Commissioner Archer,” the Joker commanded, “I want Edward Nygma dead. Yesterday would be best, tonight would be okay and tomorrow would be acceptable, but do it before the Wayne Benefit starts on Friday. Are we clear?”

Archer replied, “Crystal,” and brashly asked, “How long before I become Commissioner?”

The Joker sighed, shook his head and replied, “You should be announced as the new Commissioner shortly after Edward Nygma’s death, not before. The sooner Mr. Nygma dies, the sooner you have a new job and an extra twenty grand.”


“What about the twenty large, up front that you promised? Do I still get that?” Thoughts of grabbing the first plane out of the country crossed Archer’s mind.

The Joker cackled and replied, “What, and have you running to the airport as soon as you leave here? Give me a little credit, Commissioner.” The Joker fished the bundle of cash out of his purple slacks and shook it in front of Archer’s face. “I’ll pay you forty grand upon completion of the task. Sammy, undo these ropes so the future Commissioner can go home and get some rest. It’s already two in the morning and he has a big day ahead of him tomorrow.”

As the tight ropes loosened, Archer rubbed his numb shoulders and arms to hasten the restoration of normal circulation. When the last of the ropes fell away, he stood and then, as he felt capable of walking, took a couple of steps towards the body of Sheryl Wilkinson. With mixed emotions he stared down at her frozen expression of shock. She had lured him here, yes, but she might still be alive if he had agreed to play ball with the Joker a little sooner.

“I’m so sorry,” the Captain whispered.

The Joker patted the contrite detective on the back in mock sympathy, and said, “Yeah, well, I’m sure she forgives you, Archer,” and then added loudly, “Like the Jews forgave Hitler! Now get outta here before you make me sick! Sammy, escort our newest ally to his car. This is kind of a rough neighborhood, you know, and we certainly don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”