Batman

PREVIOUSLY: A new reality television program launches in Gotham City – with costumed supervillains as its contestants. Much to Batman’s chagrin, the show is a huge hit.

Wayne Enterprises CEO Lucius Fox announces his candidacy to fill the vacant seat. His candidacy is threatened by a massive products liability lawsuit filed against Wayne Enterprises. Batman searches the Plaintiff’s attorney’s office for information regarding the suit, but is attacked and the building set ablaze.

“-just that we’ve been getting complaints, Lieutenant, and thought the GCPD ought to be made aware of them.”

Lieutenant Harvey Bullock picked his teeth with a toothpick he’d taken from the checkout line after his all-you-can-eat lunch at the Cherry House Chinese buffet. A new stain of sweet-and-sour sauce dotted his bright yellow tie, joining three other stains of indeterminate origin. He was focusing more on whatever was between his teeth than the speaker when he responded. “Don’t you guys get stuff like this a lot?”

Keith Harris wondered if calling the GCPD had been a mistake, glowering at Bullock across his desk. Bullock had refused his offer of a seat, and now he towered over Harris’ desk, leaving the executive feeling a bit intimidated. Figures, he thought. He could stand up to Batman with no trouble, but Dumbo the Cop was a problem.

“Stuff like what, Lieutenant? Threats?” he answered, a tinge of condescension in his voice.

Bullock pretended not to notice. “Cranks. Nutcases. There’s tons of ‘em out there. I’d figure with your show’s high profile, you’d draw some of those yahoos.”

“We do.”

“Then what makes this one special?”

Harris was now visibly annoyed. “Lieutenant, do you have any idea what this show is about?”

Bullock returned Harris’ glare, and haunched down over his desk. “Yeah; I got a pretty good idea. You parade a collection of freaks and nutcases across the stage and act like they’re some kinda celebrities. You convince thousands of other people that it’s perfectly normal to dress up in a Halloween costume and commit whatever crimes strike their fancy. You – and people like you – are responsible for making my job about fifty times harder than it needs to be.

“So yeah, I got a pretty good idea what you’re about. Now – what do you want?”

Harris stood. “First of all, there are no ‘people like me’. I’m it – an original. Second, Fatboy, I pay your fucking salary and I demand a little..”

“Guys; guys.” Bullock and Harris had all but forgotten Hudson Pyle, seated casually in a chair in the corner of the office. “This isn’t productive.” he said as they turned to look at him. Taking advantage of their surprised pause, Pyle continued. “Lieutenant, I think the reason for concern is that we’re pretty far into our first season. Six shows have aired, and we’re down to two contestants. That means three of the original contestants – all of whom are former or current supervillains – now have an axe to grind against the Idol. That’s in addition to the ones who auditioned for the show and didn’t get on – guys like Chancer, Kite-Man, The Spook, you name it. The nature of what we do means we make a lot of enemies, and we have to take these threats seriously.”

Harris had regained his composure. “Hudson is right. Look, we’re not asking for any kind of special treatment. We would just like the GCPD to take a look at some of these threats and, if appropriate, provide an appropriate level of security. Is that something we can agree on?”

Bullock tossed his toothpick toward Harris’ trashcan, missing by a good foot and a half. The toothpick fell onto the plush carpet. “Gimme a copy of anything you got in writing. We’ll take a look at it. I’m sure you know,” he stifled a grin as he looked at Harris, “that our resources are very limited, prolly due to inadequate support from the taxpayers. So we’ll have to get to it as soon as we can get to it.”

Without another word, or a departing handshake, Bullock turned and left the office. Harris’ photo of himself in the Caymans fell off the wall as the door slammed behind him. Pyle jumped at the sound.

Twelve blocks away, Crispus Allen was picking through ashen debris, his fingers soiled with soot. He stopped and wiped a smudge from his wedding ring, then stood and called to one of the techs for a pair of gloves.

Flashbulbs burst as the crime scene photographers surveyed the obvious arson site. The official call hadn’t been made, but the fact that Allen and Renee Montoya had been summoned so quickly was significant – no one had believed for a minute that the fire that had rocked the law offices of G. Lee Williams was accidental. At this point the official declaration was just a formality.

Allen looked over at Renee Montoya sifting through debris. They’d both been at it for about two hours, quiet time alone with their thoughts and a new investigation. “Find anything interesting, Renee?”

Montoya stood from where she’d been sifting and looked over at Allen. She wiped her forehead, leaving a black smudge, and shook her head. “Nothing that seems significant. I hate fire investigations, especially when the fire’s this bad. Most of the evidence gets burned up.”

Allen shook his finger. “Now Renee, that’s naïve. We’re just not properly trained to discern what evidence is important in cases like these.”

“Which begs the question of why we’re the ones digging through the rubble.”

Allen grinned. “It does, at that.”

Their reverie was interrupted by a call over Montoya’s radio. “Uh, Detective? Can you come down to the street? We’ve got a kind of situation here.”

“Oh no.” Allen muttered as they reached the street. “Media circus.”

With a Mayoral race in full swing, everything was a photo-op. This time the hoarde was assembled near the building’s front entrance, a throng of press and onlookers vying for a moment of Kelen Conley’s time. Strangely, he looked familiar in the spotlight, his only ruffle an occasionally misplaced tie. He’d adjust it every so often as he addressed his audience.

“-onley, do you have any comment on this situation?”

“Well, naturally I hate to see our city being torched. It’s not pleasant, to say the least.”

“Do you think this was arson?”

Allen thought he saw Conley suppress a grin. “That’s for the police to determine. I’m sure we’ll all be anxious to hear about the results of their investigation.” His face brightened as he spotted Allen and Montoya. “In fact, here are two of the top detectives on the Major Crimes Unit as we speak. Detectives,” he gestured in their direction. “Maybe the two of you can fill us in on what happened here.”

Nothing annoyed Allen more than politicians. Montoya stepped in quickly, sensing that her partner’s cool demeanor was likely to dissolve rapidly. “Mr. Conley, I’m sure you know that we don’t typically give press conferences on ongoing investigations.”

Conley was undeterred. He continued his interrogation as if he was a member of the press. “Detective.. Montoya, right? Have the police concluded yet that this was arson?”

Montoya slowly counted to three before answering. “When a determination is made, the GCPD will inform the public, pursuant to standard procedures. Neither Detective Allen nor I have any further comment at this time. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you folks to move along. I’m concerned that the traffic here will impede access to the building.”

“She’s right, folks.” Conley conceded with a smile. “This could be a crime scene, and we don’t want to contaminate it. Let’s let the police do their jobs.” He beamed at Montoya, having successfully planted the seed that this was, in fact, a crime scene.

The crowd began to disperse, but not before a reporter got in a final question. “Mr. Conley, do you believe there is any connection between this fire and the Cartwright suit against Wayne Enterprises?”

Conley stopped, having finally gotten the question he’d been waiting for all day. “I certainly hope,” he said in his most sincere voice. “That’s not the case. I certainly hope no one at Wayne would resort to arson to cover up negligence.”

Lucius Fox clicked off the small television propped in the conference room. Despite his seething anger, he kept his composure. “You’ve got to admit,” he said as he turned back toward Bruce Wayne and Rachel Green. “He’s very good at it. Playing the media, I mean. How many things did he just accuse us.. me.. of doing without ever saying it?”

Green rolled her eyes and nodded reluctantly. Bruce was less convinced. “It’s sensationalism. Surely people are too smart to fall for hucksterism like that.”

Now Green was really skeptical. “You have a lot of faith in people, Bruce. I’m not sure they deserve it. Remind me again what’s the top TV show right now? A show about supervillains? Yeah, the public’s just brilliant.”

“She’s right, Bruce.” Lucius took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put them back on. “This is how the media works, and it’s how politics work.”

Bruce thought over his own role in the fire, unwilling and unable to share his thoughts with the others. “I’m surprised to hear you two say that. Surely you’ve dealt with enough intelligent people to have some faith in people as a whole.”

“Bruce,” Rachel said. “A person is smart. One. I have known hundreds if not thousands of persons who were intelligent. People, on the other hand, are incredibly stupid, and very easily manipulated. Conley understands that, and he taps into that lowest common denominator mentality very very well.”

“Look,” Lucius broke the awkward silence that followed. “Obviously none of us was involved with this fire, and as far as we know no one at WayneCorp was.” The phrase as far as we know hung in the air like a lead balloon. Could someone in the campaign have taken things too far? If they had, and got caught, it would be a complete disaster. But there was no way to keep tabs on everyone involved with the campaign all the time. “My point,” Lucius continued, “is that we need to do exactly what Conley said – let the police handle it. I’m sure they can handle a fire, or arson, investigation just fine without our intereference.

“In the meantime, we need to figure out what’s going on with the Cartwright case. Rachel, you said you had some information for us?”

Green nodded, and passed a stack of papers to Bruce and Lucius. She gave them a minute to skim the information before continuing. “I’ll spare you reading the whole thing right now. That is the report compiled by the expert witness we have retained, Chris Page. Mr. Page is an engineer who specializes in accident reconstruction.

“Normally we would have Mr. Page examine the offending product, in this case the soda can. However, due to the nature of Mr. Cartwright’s accident, the can was almost completely destroyed, so it was unavailable.”

Bruce started to ask a question, but didn’t. His mind was processing Green’s words, pieces falling into place in his mind. Since the fire he’d been looking for connections in the chaos. Something was there, just out of reach, but he hadn’t quite put it together – yet.

“Instead,” Rachel continued. “Mr. Page has focused his efforts on trying to reconstruct the accident using a different can. He’s been trying to duplicate the accident by introducing various disparate elements into the carbonation process.

“The good news is, Mr. Page has been unable to duplicate the accident that injured Mr. Cartwright. He cannot explain how this occurred.”

“I don’t understand.” said Bruce. “How is that good news. I thought the point was to figure out what happened.”

“Not exactly.” replied Green, a finger in the air. “The point was to see if we, or one of our subsidiaries, did anything wrong. And so far, even taking into account the things that could possibly have been done wrong, Mr. Page cannot duplicate the accident. It doesn’t get us entirely off the hook, but it’s definitely encouraging.”

“This whole thing just doesn’t make sense.” Lucius stood and paced over to the window, stealing a view of the bustle of the city below Green’s fifty-third floor office. “The problem with this engineering analysis is that we know the accident happened. We go in knowing that it is possible. Now we’ve got an engineer telling us it can’t. How can we assign any credibility to his conclusion?”

“We have to rely on his expertise, Lucius.” Rachel answered. “I don’t understand all the physics involved here. If Mr. Page is telling us something isn’t possible, I think we have to at least consider the possibility. More importantly, I think a judge and/or jury will have to consider it.”

“So what’s that mean, the kid is lying?” Lucius was exasperated. “The explosion was witnessed by a playground full of kids, Rachel. How does this make any sense?”

How indeed, Bruce wondered. He thought about G. Lee Williams’ wet floor.

“We’re back on Gotham Insider. I’m Nina Blackmon. Reports are flying out of Hollywood that Gotham Idol’s Klaus Kristin has been cast as the lead in Martin Scorchayse’s newest film, Sheriff’s Row. Kristin will reportedly play the role of suave assassin Myles Ditchman, Scorchayse’s tough-as-nails killer. Kristin’s agent, who has seen his client’s star rise dramatically as he has progressed through the Gotham Idol competition, declined official comment. George?”

“Thank you, Nina. I’m George Sandal. Recent polls show that Kristin is the most popular member of the Idol cast, with his popularity particularly high among teenage girls. Although there was a rumor on the Internet last week that Klaus was gay, he has assured his fans – of both genders – that he’s straight, and single. In addition to his upcoming career in Hollywood, Klaus is marketing a line of sunglasses based upon his unique model. This new brand, called Albinos, should be making its way to a store near you very soon.”

“So Mr. Cobb, how did you feel about being eliminated from the competition?”

“Well Chet, I have to say I’m disappointed. I had hoped to run the table and strike a blow for us old-school guys. But both Klaus and Sondra are very nice folks, great to work with, and I wish them the best.”

“Are your Signalman days truly behind you?”

“Oh yes.” {chuckle} “If for no other reason than outfits like the one I used to wear went out of style thirty years ago. If the real police didn’t get me, the fashion police would.”

“Some of your co-contestants haven’t taken their elimination so well. Both Otis Flannegan and Mortimer Kadaver were visibly upset at their ousters, and Kadaver threatened to, quote, flay the skin from the bones of all those who fail to appreciate true genius, unquote. What do you think of their reactions?”

“Ah, well, Mort has a little flair for the dramatic. When you get on the stage, in some ways, it’s like the life all over again. There’s an expectation to perform. And you get caught up in it, the role, the persona. Tends to make you over-dramatize. I doubt Mort has ever flayed anyone’s bones or whatever; he’s just playing his part. Same thing with Otis.”

“What has surprised you most about Gotham Idol?”

“Just the remarkable public support we’ve enjoyed. It’s nice to know you can get a second chance in this world. People who rip on the show don’t see that side of it – they don’t see it from our perspective. It’s not about sensationalizing criminals. It’s about giving those people a chance to show they’ve changed.”

“Any predictions on the final?”

“It’ll be close. I think Sondra’s going to take the crown, because she’s so incredibly sympathetic. But Klaus will give her a great run.”

“Phil Cobb, Ladies and Gentlemen. No longer the Signalman.”

“In other news, Gotham Idol producer Keith Harris announced today that the show has hired a private security firm to provide heightened security for the show’s season finale, in which the first Gotham Idol will be crowned. Rumors have been swirling for several weeks of a growing number of threats directed against the show, leading some to speculate that ousted cast members – or rogues who didn’t make the original cut – could attempt some act of terrorism against the program. Harris had this to say in a prepared statement released this afternoon:

When we started Gotham Idol, we knew we would make a lot of enemies. Most threats are just that – idle threats with no real substance. However, we did have some concern about some of the threats we received, and we do not want anything to jeopardize our fans or contestants during the Season Finale. We approached the police, but were dismissed. Apparently they have better things to do than protect the people who pay their salaries. So we have hired a private security firm to help assure the safety of those who have made our show the most watched on television. We encourage everyone to tune in for our shocking Season Finale, Tuesday night at 8:00 pm, on Fox.

“The GCPD officially declined comment. Lieutenant Harvey Bullock was quoted as saying that Harris was a, quote, candy-ass, unquote. We’ll have more of this story as it develops, including an interview with the head of the security firm protecting the Finale.”

“Are you tired of the same old same old?

Do you yearn for something different?

Would you like to know what it feels like to be gnawed to death by ants?

If you answered ‘yes’ to at least two of these questions, Kadaver’s Mausoleum is the place for you!! Come experience the unauthorized entertainment complex patterned after Gotham Idol’s creepiest contestant. Only $20 admission per person, or buy a season ticket for $75 and get unlimited ‘slayings’. 666 Roi Road. Or call 555-dead for reservations. Hurry – before your time runs out!!!

This entertainment venue is not associated with Mortimer Kadaver.”

It had been three weeks since Jeffrey Cartwright had been moved into a special care facility. It was hoped his stay would be temporary, and that he would soon be able to resume some semblance of a normal life. At the Brashear Institute, he would receive the physical and psycho-therapy he needed to make the transition back to normal life.

The Brashear Institute’s security was woefully inadequate.

Batgirl had detected only the one guard at the gate, and had slipped by him without being seen or heard. He’d been wearing headphones, making her job extremely easy.

Once inside the campus perimeter, Batgirl kept to the shadows, quietly stealing her way toward the main building. Swingsets and benches used for recreation during the day lay silent in the still night. When she had finally exhausted the cover of the treeline, Batgirl sprinted at top speed over the lawn toward the building, pulling her cape tight around her with her hands to keep its billowing shape from attracting attention.

Arriving at the base of the building, Batgirl quickly scanned overhead until she found the window she wanted. Then she hurled a line, waiting for the inevitable “ping” as it connected with the window and hooked onto the ledge.

Batgirl’s heart raced as she skillfully scaled the wall. What if the rope had been noticed? What if someone was waiting for her at the top? But these were doubts harbored by lesser people. She’d deal with what came her way.

Slowly, Batgirl pulled herself over the ledge, ready to drop immediately if she’d been discovered. Nothing. No sound came from the darkened room inside the window. Batgirl clicked her night-vision goggles into place, confirming that the room was empty, save for one slumbering occupant.

Removing a glass cutter from her belt, Batgirl carefully sliced a circular incision in the window. She used a suction cup to pull the completed arc out of the window, then balanced the pane of glass delicately on the windowsill and slipped inside the room.

Her boots made only the slightest thud as she landed in the darkened room of Jeffrey Cartwright. Jeffrey lay sleeping on his back, tucked tightly into sterile-looking sheets, oblivious to her presence. Batgirl carefully trod over to the bed and looked down upon its snoozing occupant.

As badly as her childhood had sometimes gone, Batgirl had always had her health. She’d even been fortunate enough to escape serious injury as she’d become more embroiled in Batman’s crusade. Jeffrey hadn’t been so fortunate, she saw. An eyepatch covered one eye, Jeffrey’s prosthetic still not available for fitting. A long jagged scar ran across his face, cutting from just below the missing eyes, across the nose, and over the opposite cheek. Batgirl was struck by how pale Jeffrey looked, as if all the color had been surgically removed from his face. Even in the darkness she was taken by his pallor. Maybe she’d just grown more sensitive to pigmentation after spending so much time with Nocturna, she thought.

Breaking her reverie, Batgirl reached into a pouch on her belt and withdraw a small scalpel. She tested the blade, making sure it was dulled, and carefully slid it across Jeffrey’s face.

He twitched involuntarily at the contact, and Batgirl ducked, crouched immediately beside his bed. She stayed perfectly still for at least five minutes, unsure whether Jeffrey was awake or asleep, monitoring his breathing.

Finally convinced Jeffrey was asleep, Batgirl slowly stood and replaced the scalpel in her pouch. She gave Jeffrey a long, last look, then slipped out the window. She paused on the windowsill to replace the pane she’d sliced as best she could, then scaled back down the wall and disappeared into the night.

“She got it?” Batman checked an item of his mental to-do list as Oracle spoke.

“Sounds like it.” Oracle responded into his transmitter. “Doesn’t appear there was any incident. She’s on her way back to the Cave.”

“Good.”

“Are you at the show?”

“Yes.” Batman strained to hear Oracle over the din as the studio audience buzzed with anticipation.

“You really think one of these guys is crazy enough to sabotage the finale?”

“Do you really need to ask that question? Batman out.”

The connection killed, Batman sunk even more deeply into the shadows of his perch, high in the rafters. Below him spotlights flared, the lights dimmed, and the theme song began in earnest. Da na na na na na na na.

The curtain parted, and Hudson Pyle strode onto the stage to a thundering roar of applause. The finale of Gotham Idol had begun.

Batman pulled his cape tight around him, his senses at full alert. It was showtime.

To Be Continued...

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