by Jason Starr
“I agree, it doesn’t make much sense,” Amanda said, “but the facts remain—he came here for a reason, and now he’s dead.”
Harvey looked at Frank’s eerie eyes again, and then he had to glance away again.
“Man,” Harvey said, wincing. “I hate this feeling.”
“If you need a mint I’ve got one in the car,” Amanda said.
“Not that feeling,” Harvey said. “The feeling that we’re always two steps behind.” Suddenly he saw a look on her face, as her eyes went wide. “What is it?”
“What weapon do you think the killer used?”
“Well, for the lady, my guess is a gun,” he said. “For Frank, hmm, that’s hard to say. If it was a knife, it was a sharp one.”
“Remember how the walls in Thomas Wayne’s study had been chopped up?”
“It was only a couple days ago,” Harvey said sarcastically. “I’ve been known to black out, but my memory’s not that bad.” He saw where she was going.
“Thomas Wayne said the guy with the zombie mask had a meat cleaver,” Amanda said.
“Good thinking,” Harvey said. He looked again at the body parts. “So I guess we’re looking for a zombie with a meat cleaver. Great. Just great.”
“Basically, yeah,” Amanda said.
Harvey looked at Frank’s head, with the wide-open eyes that seemed to be staring right at him, and he couldn’t hold back. He threw up again.
He went into the bathroom, washed up, and gargled. It helped… a little. Then he rejoined Amanda.
“Hey, about what just happened here—”
“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
He believed her.
“Thanks,” Harvey said. He had to admit it—as a partner, she was starting to grow on him. She kicked ass, was tough as hell, and could keep secrets. That was a big trifecta.
There was noise at the front of the apartment, and the forensics crew arrived, along with a couple of uniforms. They did their thing, taking prints and collecting evidence from the scene. It became too crowded in the small space, and to Harvey’s relief, he and Amanda retreated outside.
* * *
Later, they were back in the car, driving. The Gotham traffic was stop-and-go, with more stopping than going. There had to be an accident or something up ahead.
Harvey was absorbed in his thoughts, thinking about the friends and colleagues he’d lost over the years, and how it seemed like it was only a matter of time until his number came up.
“What’s wrong?” Amanda asked.
“Huh?” Harvey asked. He’d heard her, but he was startled.
“You’re not talking,” Amanda said. “That means something’s wrong.”
“You’re getting to know me too well,” Harvey said.
“So what is it?” she asked. “You thinking about the zombie? What’s going on?”
Harvey usually didn’t like talking about his feelings. Whenever women asked him how he felt, he always clammed up, or changed the subject. He wasn’t trying to be a jerk—if he knew how he felt he would’ve gladly told them—but most of the time he had no idea how he felt. That was how he got through life in Gotham and stayed sane. In Gotham, if you were aware of every feeling you had, felt the pain of every death, these were surefire ways to wind up in Arkham. In this town, denial was king.
“Guess I’m just thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about,” he said.
“What kind of things?” Amanda asked.
“You’d make a good shrink,” Harvey said. The only worse thing than having to talk about your feelings was having to talk about your feelings to a shrink.
“That’s what all my friends say.”
“I don’t know what surprises me more,” Harvey said smirking, “that you have friends, or that you consider me a friend.”
Amanda smiled.
“All right, if you really wanna know, I was thinking about that poor guy who got killed.”
“Officer Warren?”
“No, but that sucked, too.”
“Frank Collins?” Amanda asked.
“No,” Harvey said, “Collins obviously somehow got too deep in his own dung, and paid the price for it. I mean the guy who worked at the motel, Louie DePino. He had a daughter—loved her, talked about her all the time. If a man gets killed, that stinks. If a man with a kid gets killed, that’s tragedy.”
“You ever think about having a kid yourself?” Amanda asked.
Back to acting like a shrink, but Harvey didn’t mind.
“A kid deserves a better father than me,” Harvey said.
“I think you’re selling yourself short.”
About ten seconds went by.
“How about you?” Harvey said. “I don’t see you pumping out rug rats anytime soon.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you told me you don’t have time for a relationship. If you don’t have time to take care of a guy, how are you gonna take care of a kid?”
“Who said anything about a guy? I just need somebody with good genes to pass along.”
“You mean like a test tube baby?” Harvey asked.
“No, but I’ll get a sperm donor,” she said. “A friend or someone to, you know, do the deed. Somebody who’s strong, and sincere. That’s a big thing for me—sincerity.”
Harvey laughed. “So what’re you gonna do? Hold interviews?”
“When I’m ready, I’ll find the right guy.” Amanda was serious, looking straight ahead, not at Harvey.
“Okay, so then what’re you gonna do?” Harvey asked. “Quit the force?”
“I know how to walk and chew gum,” Amanda said. “I’ll take my maternity leave, then return to work. I see myself always being a cop. Actually, I want to be running the department someday.”
“Great, then you’ll be my boss.”
“Unless you get there before me.”
“Me? I have no interest in running anything,” Harvey said. “I hate power.”
“Have you told Lacey White that?”
“Nice one,” Harvey said without smiling.
“I’m just busting your chops,” Amanda said. “You don’t like to be on the other end of a joke, do you?”
Harvey thought about it. “Does anybody?”
The cops must’ve cleared the accident up ahead and the traffic picked up.
* * *
A few minutes later Harvey got a call from headquarters. Forensics got a match on the print from the murder scene at Belladonna’s place. The print belonged to a low level two-time loser thug named Nikos Petrakos.
“Looks like we found our zombie,” Amanda said.
Putting on the siren, pumped for revenge, Harvey said, “Let’s go nail this bastard.”
TWENTY-FOUR
On Monday morning, Alfred dropped Bruce off at Anders Preparatory Academy for his first day back at school since the family trip to Switzerland.
“I’ll be here to get you at three sharp,” he told the boy, “and we’ll go right to your tennis lesson.”
“Right, how can I forget?” Bruce said. He wore his school uniform of dark pants, white shirt, tie, and jacket.
“Come on, tennis isn’t so bad, mate. Maybe you’ll be gracing the lawns at Wimbledon someday.”
“I don’t think tennis is my calling, Alfred.”
“Okay, Wimbledon aside, everything doesn’t have to be your calling. But, I reckon, there are things you can call your endeavors that may help you later in life. In tennis, for instance, you’ll learn the importance of strategy, patience, planning, and you need to be quick on your feet.”
But Bruce wasn’t having any of it.
“I’d rather learn how to fight,” he said, unwilling to give it up.
“Well, you have a great day, mate,” Alfred said.
“You, too, Alfred.” With that he headed along the pathway through the lush grounds, his book bag hanging over his shoulder. He passed fellow students—some from his classes, some from other grades. He acknowledge
d the kids he knew with a polite “hello” or a smile. In school he had many acquaintances whom he shared lunch with in the cafeteria, competed with during gym class, or worked with on science, math, and engineering projects, but he didn’t have any close friendships.
It had always been that way for him—well, since kindergarten. He liked most kids, and most kids liked him, but when he wasn’t in school, he preferred to spend most of his time alone, or with his parents and Alfred.
Some kids didn’t like Bruce at all, and for no reason he could discern, they made nasty comments. Perhaps they resented him because he was the son of a famous billionaire, or they misunderstood his desire to spend time alone, and thought he was too uppity or aloof. He knew he wasn’t imagining it, because he’d discovered some people talking about him behind his back.
He never quite knew what to do about it, however. When people were mean, he never felt upset or hurt. If anything, he felt sorry for them. He imagined that it must be an awful way to go through life, having to deal with so much anger.
There were two kids who seemed to have it in for Bruce—had since last year. Jake Wheeler and Andrew Thompson. Jake was probably the most popular boy in the whole school. He was the star of the football, wrestling, and hockey teams, and had always exhibited the bravado that came with competition.
Andrew used to be a nice kid. In elementary school he and Bruce had played in the schoolyard together, and they always laughed and had a good time. Then, as Andrew got older and taller, all the girls thought he was good-looking and the popularity went straight to his head. He stopped hanging out with Bruce and his other friends, and became Jake’s sidekick. Bruce didn’t know what was going on with Andrew’s life, but he figured that he had to feel pretty insecure in order to give up his entire identity to impress somebody else.
He approached the two of them, sitting on a wall, and Bruce saw Jake whisper something into Andrew’s ear. Andrew looked at Bruce and smiled, but not in a friendly way. The smile reminded Bruce of the way that boy at the circus had smiled after bumping into his father. The smile reflected a hidden agenda. It seemed sinister.
Jake and Andrew got up and stood in front of Bruce, forcing him to stop walking.
“Hey, Bruce Wayne,” Jake said harshly. “Where have you been?”
As always, Bruce didn’t feel any fear or intimidation. He looked right into Jake’s eyes.
“On a family vacation in Switzerland.”
“A family vacation in the middle of the semester,” Jake said. “Wow, I wish I was living your life. Well, not really, but…”
Jake laughed, and Andrew laughed with him, but it seemed to Bruce that Andrew didn’t really want to laugh. He was just trying to get Jake’s approval. It was rather pathetic.
“Seriously,” Jake said. “I mean you get escorted to school every day by your butler, when all of the rest of us mere mortals have to take a school bus… So how do you get to take this time off school? Is it because your father pays them millions of dollars?”
“My father hasn’t donated money to the school,” Bruce said. “My family pays the tuition that everyone else pays.”
“But you don’t have to do the work that everyone else does,” Jake persisted.
“I do the same work as everyone else,” Bruce said. “When we’re travelling, I’m home schooled.”
“Ooh, home schooled in Switzerland,” Jake said. “That sounds so fancy. So who home schools you? Does the richest kid in Gotham have a private tutor?”
“No, my mother tutors me,” Bruce said.
“His mommy tutors him,” Jake said mockingly to Andrew. “Does she still stick a pacifier in your mouth, and sing lullabies to you, too? Wait, maybe she still breast-feeds you. That would explain a lot.”
Andrew laughed again. Could he really think Jake was funny?
“How is your mother anyway?” Jake asked Bruce. “Still hanging out at the hardware store?”
Bruce didn’t respond.
“You know, the hardware store,” Jake said. “I heard she charges a nickel a screw.”
Jake and Andrew laughed, louder than before.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Bruce said, remaining stone-faced, “and it won’t work.”
“Yeah?” Jake said. “I have to hear this. What am I trying to do?”
“You’re trying to illicit a response from me,” Bruce said. “You want me to say something like, ‘Don’t talk about my mother.’ Or you’d probably prefer it if I just hit you, threw the first punch. Then we could get into it a fight and you wouldn’t have to risk suspension. But the question you have to ask yourself is why you want to fight me?”
Bruce wondered if this was a mistake, challenging the kids, but couldn’t stop himself.
“What do you get out of it? Does it make you feel more secure? Is that the real problem here, your insecurity? And not just you.” He looked at Andrew. “In a way, you’re worse than he is, because you don’t think for yourself, you just go along with whatever Jake wants you to do. What a sad, powerless way to live your life. So no, I won’t give you the satisfaction of responding to the insult about my mother, if that’s what you’re expecting. Now please, step aside. I need to get to my class on time.”
Jake seemed a little confused, or maybe weakened, but then he sneered, trying to act like a tough guy again.
“What if we don’t step aside?” he challenged. “What’re you gonna do about it, Billionaire’s Son?”
Bruce didn’t know what he’d do about it—that was the problem. Jake was a wrestler, was about six inches taller than him, and probably fifty pounds heavier. Most of his weight was muscle. Bruce would be lucky if he got a single punch in, and it probably wouldn’t do much damage. Andrew wasn’t quite as big as Jake, but still he was much bigger than Bruce. In a fight against both of them Bruce wouldn’t stand a chance.
Then Mr. Sterling, the dean at the school, approached.
“What’s going on here?”
Jake’s expression changed—he seemed panicked.
“Oh, nothing, Mr. Sterling,” Jake said. “We’re just having a conversation, that’s all. Right, Andrew?”
“Yeah,” Andrew agreed. “Just a conversation.”
“Such a follower,” Bruce muttered, almost inaudibly.
“What did you say?” Mr. Sterling asked.
“Nothing,” Bruce lied. “I didn’t say anything.”
Mr. Sterling looked back and forth—at the other kids, and at Bruce.
“Were they threatening you?” he asked Bruce.
Jake glared at Bruce as if to say, “You better not squeal on us, or else.”
“No,” Bruce said, maintaining eye contact with the other boy. “Not at all.” He didn’t stay silent out of fear—in fact, it was just the opposite. He wanted to show Jake and Andrew that they couldn’t intimidate him, and if he needed to defend himself he could do it on his own, without a teacher’s intervention.
“All right, let’s get to class, boys,” Mr. Sterling said. “First period’s about to start.”
* * *
Bruce had a feeling that he hadn’t heard the last from Jake and Andrew—well, Jake in particular—but he didn’t expect to have another confrontation so soon.
In English class the teacher, Mrs. Adams, had been impressed with Bruce’s interpretation of Grendel in Beowulf. Bruce had entitled the paper, “Grendel and Our Endless Fascination With Monsters.” After the class, he headed to the cafeteria for lunch. Alfred had prepared a roast beef sandwich with mustard and pickles, one of Bruce’s favorites.
He was eating alone while double-checking the math homework that he would hand in next period, when he noticed Mr. Watson, the teacher in charge of supervising the cafeteria, talking on his cell phone.
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” he said into the phone, and then he left the cafeteria. As Mr. Watson exited, Jake and Andrew entered. Was this planned? Had Jake and Andrew prank-called some “emergency” for Mr. Watson to address, in order to get him out
of the way? It sure seemed like it.
Jake looked around, then zeroed in on Bruce, eyeing him in a menacing way. He expected them to approach and challenge him to a fight, but instead they kept walking, stopping at the table where Dennis Riley was seated with some other kids.
Dennis was an easy target—a short, slender boy, who looked much younger than fourteen. He could’ve passed for ten or eleven. He was also the smartest kid in the entire grade. Bruce had worked with him on a few projects, and they had always gotten along well.
From where Bruce was sitting, he couldn’t make out what Jake was saying to Dennis, but from the larger boy’s mannerisms he could tell that Jake was bullying him. Dennis seemed scared, and then Bruce could read his lips as he said, “C’mon just leave me alone.”
But Jake didn’t leave him alone—he kept challenging him, and then he spat on Dennis’s sandwich and laughed. Of course Andrew laughed as well. So did several kids who had begun to gather round.
Jake was doing what bullies always did. They picked on the easiest target, so they could feel strong and powerful. But Bruce also knew this really had nothing to do with Dennis. Jack was putting on a show—for the kids in the cafeteria who were laughing and cheering him on, but mainly for Bruce. Jake knew that Bruce liked Dennis, and by picking on Dennis it would instigate some sort of response.
It worked.
Jake slapped Dennis’s head, and Dennis screeched, “Owww!”
Bruce jumped up, rushed over, and with strength he didn’t know he had he grabbed Jake by his muscular shoulder and pulled him away from his friend.
“Leave him alone,” Bruce said.
While Jake’s ulterior motive all along had been to lure Bruce into a fight, he still seemed surprised by the ease with which Bruce had separated him from his target. Instantly most of the kids in the cafeteria surrounded them. Some were shouting, egging Jake on.
“You gonna take that, Jake?” someone yelled.
Others began chanting, “Fight, fight, fight…”
“Look who it is,” Jake said, “the billionaire’s son.”
