"No. It's beginning."
The rain moved almost horizontally through the projector's light. It struck the leather of my trench coat, streamed down my collar, and made the concrete beneath our feet shine until every movement carried an additional risk. Above the GCPD, the black bat looked as though it had been cut directly into the clouds, enormous and visible from a large part of Gotham. There was nothing clandestine about this summons except the identity of the man who had answered it.
Gordon stood near the metal base, his beige raincoat open over his damp shirt. Batman faced him, taller than in my memories, or perhaps only heavier in reality. Films and drawings had always needed framing, music, or ink to give him presence. On this roof, he only needed to remain still. His cape fell around him like a dark mass absorbing the light, and the pale lenses of his mask revealed nothing of what he thought.
The documents spread between them were enough to reveal what Gordon had done.
The photograph of Caleb Wirth seated before his cup. The scarred forearm glimpsed in the window's reflection. The diner's preliminary report. The old scene of Denise Rowland inside the laundromat. Every piece we had gathered since arriving in Gotham now rested on the Bat-Signal's base beneath the gloves of a man who appeared on no organizational chart, signed no reports, and was still the subject of an arrest warrant.
Pierce had just crossed the doorway behind me. She had climbed six floors without knowing exactly why I had left, and her still-short breath rapidly lifted the shoulders of her dark suit. Despite the effort, she did not ask what was happening. Her gaze moved across the files, Gordon, then Batman. She understood quickly enough for her face to close before Gordon even opened his mouth.
"Nobody is going to begin anything," he said.
His voice was not loud, but it carried above the projector's continuous rumbling. He stepped forward and raised one hand toward me as though posture alone could slow what was coming.
"Agent Beaumont, step back."
I did not move. Frank remained fused inside me, his presence spread through my shoulders, hips, and legs after the climb. My breathing was still quick, but my footing did not tremble. I felt his vigilance behind mine, his awareness fixed on Batman, Gordon, the distance to the ledge, and the door Pierce had just allowed to close.
The anger that had carried me onto the roof was no longer the same. In the stairwell, it had been hot, simple, almost comfortable. Gordon had taken our files and given them to Batman. All I had needed to do was climb. Once I stood before them, the situation became more complicated, but no less wrong.
I gestured toward the documents with my chin.
"You requested assistance from the Bureau. You accepted a joint investigation and demanded a shared timeline. You even specified that no department should keep a useful lead inside its own drawer."
Gordon held my gaze. Rain collected on the frames of his glasses, but he did not take the time to wipe them.
"I know what I said."
"Then explain why, the moment we obtain something important, you leave the room carrying our reports and hand them to a man who is not part of the investigation."
His jaw tightened. He briefly looked at the photographs, as though refusing to let my accusation make him forget what he had obtained in exchange.
"Because we now know the suspect's name."
He did not say it with pride. He placed the sentence between us like a fact whose weight should be sufficient to justify everything else. His hand closed around the empty folder.
"Victor Zsasz. That is more than we had ten minutes ago."
The name did not surprise me. It had returned to its place in my memory when I saw the marks on the suspect's forearm. Frank and I already knew who we were probably dealing with, but our certainty had no usable existence outside our link. Gordon had just provided us with an official source, however problematic.
Pierce approached slowly. She had recovered her breath, but not her calm. Her eyes remained on the evidence beside Batman for a moment before returning to Gordon.
"The name can advance the investigation," she said. "It does not justify the way you circulated the documents."
Gordon turned toward her.
"Without this meeting, we would still be searching for a faceless man."
"Perhaps. But for now, Victor Zsasz is information provided by a source who appears nowhere in our log, after reviewing materials removed from the task force without your federal partner being informed. Those are two separate realities."
Batman finally spoke. His voice was low, controlled, almost calm enough to become aggressive by contrast with everything else.
"Zsasz matches the scenes."
I turned my eyes toward him.
"You already knew him."
"I knew his name."
"For how long?"
One second passed before his answer. He was not hesitating because of poor memory. He was simply choosing the precise amount of information he was willing to surrender.
"Long enough to know he uses blades, selects victims without an obvious connection, and marks his own body. Not long enough to connect these deaths to him before seeing your photographs."
"So you had a lead."
"Yes."
"A lead you did not share with the police."
The cape moved slightly in the wind. Batman did not look away.
"I had no confirmation."
"That is generally why a lead is shared with investigators. So it can be confirmed."
Gordon intervened before Batman answered.
"And now it has been."
I turned my head toward him. His defense disturbed me more because it was not absurd. The name mattered. A potential identity opened civil records, financial files, former properties, photographs, witnesses, bank accounts, and criminal history. Gordon had obtained in minutes what might have taken us hours, perhaps days.
That was precisely the problem. An effective method could become very difficult to challenge, especially when it produced something everyone needed.
"Then why call us at all?" I asked.
He frowned slightly.
"You know perfectly well why you are here."
"I know why the FBI has a legal basis to intervene. What I do not understand is why you accept joint command if, at the first breakthrough, you decide alone that your personal source should receive the entire file."
"I did not give him the entire file."
"You gave him the scenes, the injuries, the scars, and the old case. What did you keep, the report's font?"
Pierce briefly looked toward me. The remark was not especially brilliant. It did not need to be. I was too angry to polish every sentence before releasing it.
Gordon inhaled slowly.
"You have been in this city for less than one day. You do not know half this building yet, much less the men inside it I can trust."
"Then tell us your channels are compromised. Define what information must be restricted. Create a secure log. Do not make us sign a cooperation agreement before climbing onto the roof with our evidence."
Batman turned slightly away. His foot pivoted toward the ledge, and I understood he considered the conversation over. He had seen the photographs, confirmed Zsasz, and probably memorized everything useful. In his eyes, we were no longer potential partners. Only people still occupied with discussion while he could act.
The warrant returned to my memory with almost unpleasant clarity.
The preparatory notes on Gotham mentioned several complaints for assault, trespassing, property destruction, obstruction, and failure to comply. Some had been withdrawn. Others came from suspects who later refused to testify. The file remained fragmented, but an active warrant still existed under John Doe, alias Batman.
I looked at Gordon.
"Is the warrant against him still valid?"
Rain struck his glasses. He did not answer immediately.
That was enough.
Pierce noticed my hand moving before I fully reached the case at the back of my belt.
"Beaumont, don't do this."
I removed my handcuffs. The cold metal closed against my palm, heavy and perfectly real in the middle of a scene that still appeared to belong to a fictional memory.
Gordon stepped forward abruptly.
"Put them away."
"He is the subject of an active warrant."
"Not tonight."
"That is not how a warrant works."
"And that is not how Gotham works."
"Then Gotham has an additional problem."
Pierce approached enough to position herself on my left without moving directly between Batman and me.
"We first secure the documents, record the information, and notify our superiors. You have neither a support team nor a transportation plan. You will not make this arrest alone."
I looked at Batman.
"Turn around and place your hands behind your back."
He remained motionless. His mask barely moved, but his entire posture changed. His legs did not appear farther apart. His shoulders did not rise. Yet he was ready.
"You will not arrest me," he said.
"That was not an invitation to offer your opinion."
"You have neither the personnel nor the equipment to hold me."
"You can explain that after complying."
Gordon positioned himself farther between us.
"The warrant was obtained by men, some of whom sold information to the criminals he pursued."
"Then have it legally withdrawn. As long as it exists, I will not pretend it becomes invisible every time its target helps you."
Batman spoke from behind him.
"While you debate a warrant, Zsasz is probably preparing his next murder."
I looked over Gordon's shoulder.
"Do you have an address?"
Batman did not answer.
"A location? A direct witness? An image of his face at one of our scenes?"
The visible jaw beneath the mask tightened slightly.
"I have resources your Bureau cannot deploy quickly enough here."
"That was not what I asked."
"I can find him before he kills again."
"With what? Warrantless entries, cameras taken from their owners, and informants nobody will be able to question at trial?"
"With what works."
The answer made me tighten my grip on the handcuffs.
"Methods do not create authority."
Batman watched me without moving.
"They save lives."
"Sometimes."
"More often than the procedures that left these victims inside separate files for years."
Pierce intervened before I answered.
"Nobody denies the failure to connect the initial cases. But if you find Zsasz by entering private property illegally and then hand us a weapon without being able to explain where it was, who touched it, or what you moved, we may have a dangerous man in front of us and no means of keeping him imprisoned."
Batman turned his mask toward her.
"I do not work for a court."
Pierce did not raise her voice. Her face remained perfectly closed, but her words emerged more slowly.
"That is exactly the problem. You want to influence an investigation without accepting the obligations that come with it. You choose the part of the work that suits you and leave everyone else to try saving the case after you pass through."
A brief silence followed. Gordon looked at Batman, then Pierce. He did not appear to appreciate her phrasing, but he could not pretend it lacked foundation.
Batman turned toward the ledge.
This time, the movement was clear.
He was leaving.
I stepped forward.
"Malcolm."
Pierce used my first name for the first time since we met. Not from familiarity. Her voice carried the urgency of someone watching a decision close in front of her.
"Stay here. We will address the warrant with an appropriate operation."
Batman placed one foot near the edge. He turned his head toward me one last time.
"Gotham is not your city."
The sentence immediately found the place where it could reach me. Not because I was attached to Gotham. I had spent only one day there. I knew neither its streets nor its habits nor the areas where a uniform was still enough to reassure someone.
What truly angered me was the implied possession in his voice.
His city.
His criminals.
His victims.
His rules.
He was not merely telling me I lacked local experience. He was explaining that I had no place inside territory he had claimed without asking anyone.
"It is not yours either."
I moved forward.
Gordon reached out one hand to restrain me, but I had already passed him. Batman pivoted when I came within reach. I extended my hand toward his right arm above the elbow, intending to establish control and move him away from the ledge.
He reacted before my fingers closed.
His forearm deflected my wrist outward while his left hand closed around the base of my thumb. The twist could have forced me to turn my shoulder or fall if I resisted directly. Ted had taught me long ago that a joint had no interest in your pride. It was better to follow a hold for a fraction of a second than lose a hand while pretending you were stronger.
I turned with the movement, drew my elbow close to my ribs, and broke the angle. Frank reinforced my forearm at the same moment. My fingers came free before Batman fully locked the hold.
He stepped back half a pace.
No visible surprise. Only an adjustment.
I returned to contact.
"Beaumont, disengage!" Pierce shouted behind me.
Batman slipped beneath my arm. His shoulder entered my chest, and his hip moved in front of mine. He used my momentum to begin a throw. My right foot slipped on the soaked concrete. Frank corrected the support before my ankle fully gave way, and I lowered my center of gravity instead of fighting backward.
The throw stopped.
Batman did not insist. His elbow immediately moved toward my solar plexus.
I turned just enough for the impact to strike the reinforced section of my suit. The panel Laurie had integrated distributed the force, but the air still left my lungs. Pain crossed my sternum and descended into my abdomen.
I struck back.
A short straight punch toward the ribs.
Batman placed his forearm in front of it. His gauntlet absorbed the contact, but Frank pushed with me when my rear foot found clean support. The full rotation of my hips and the additional strength from the fusion passed into the impact.
Batman stepped backward.
Only half a step.
Enough to understand the armor did not make my blows useless. It stopped my knuckles, distributed force, and protected his bones. It did not abolish mass or acceleration.
My joints, meanwhile, felt the plate perfectly well.
"This is going to leave marks on both of us," Frank observed.
There was no humor in his voice. Only an assessment.
Batman raised his left arm, and his cape spread between us, wide enough to conceal the position of his shoulders. I saw the black fabric, but not the strike launched behind it.
Frank watched the other angle.
"Right. High."
I lowered my head. The reinforced glove passed above my temple and struck the top of my skull. White light burst behind my eyes, but I immediately entered his guard before he regained distance.
Ted had taught me that a more technical fighter became even more dangerous when given time to choose. Batman probably had more answers than I had questions. My best way to reduce that advantage was to reduce the space itself.
I placed my forehead against the top of his chest armor, seized his right arm, and pushed toward the projector's base. Batman hooked my ankle with his heel. My right knee struck the wet concrete, and pain rose violently to my hip.
His hand pressed against my neck to hold me down while he moved toward the ledge. I grabbed his cape before he created distance. The fastening immediately released near his shoulder, freeing the fabric from my grip.
He had anticipated someone trying.
I should not have been surprised.
It gave him space. It gave me one second.
I stood.
Gordon and Pierce had moved near the projector. Neither tried to throw themselves between us. The rain, the ledge, and the speed of our movements turned any physical intervention into a likely way of adding a third injured person.
"Stop!" Gordon shouted. "Both of you!"
Batman could still leave.
I could still step back.
Neither of us did.
I followed when he resumed moving toward the edge. Pierce shouted my name behind me, louder than before.
"Malcolm, that is an order!"
I heard her.
I also knew exactly what I risked. My first federal investigation. One week working for the Bureau. A partner who already did not trust me. A career I had built slowly enough to know the value of every step.
I was aware of all of it.
I continued anyway.
Batman turned and stopped merely trying to disengage. His palm struck upward against my jaw. My head snapped back, my teeth struck together, and the metallic taste of blood immediately filled my mouth. A second strike targeted the base of my neck. Frank reinforced my shoulders at the final moment, but the impact still traveled down my spine.
Batman seized the lapel of my trench coat and used my imbalance to push me against the metal base. I turned just enough for my shoulder to strike the structure before my skull. The projector vibrated, and the bat drawn in the sky trembled under the impact.
He moved behind me. His forearm closed beneath my chin and compressed both sides of my neck.
Not a slow choke.
A precise closure meant to cut blood flow to the brain.
Frank concentrated inside my shoulders and jaw. I slipped two fingers between his arm and my throat before the hold closed completely. Black spots already appeared along the edges of my vision.
I drove backward into the base.
Batman's back struck the metal. His grip loosened for a fraction of a second. I tucked my chin, turned my shoulder, and escaped before he closed it again.
He struck my stomach.
The panel stopped the hard surface of the glove, but not the wave of force passing through. My diaphragm contracted. I folded slightly, and his knee rose toward my face.
Frank warned me too late for a complete evasion.
I turned my head. The reinforcement on his boot struck my cheekbone instead of my nose. The roof tilted. My right hand touched the ground, and for one second the world narrowed to rain against concrete and the ringing inside my ear.
Batman stepped forward to complete the neutralization.
He expected me to remain down longer.
I pushed from my left leg.
Ted had made me repeat that movement hundreds of times. Stand under pressure without offering your chin. Protect the head with the shoulder. Do not waste one second wondering whether the pain is fair.
I entered Batman before he reset his hips. My forehead struck the top of his chest armor, and my arms closed around his waist. Frank pushed through my legs.
I lifted him.
His boots left the roof by several inches.
Enough to remove his footing.
I threw him against the projector's base. The metal rang beneath his back, but Batman reacted before I consolidated the position. Two of his fingers pressed near my collarbone between the reinforced sections of my trench coat.
Sharp pain traveled down my left arm.
A nerve point.
My fingers weakened. He attempted to turn, but I maintained pressure with my other arm and struck his ribs. His gauntlet descended too late. The blow reached the lower section of his armor with all the force Frank and I could put into such a short movement.
Batman exhaled abruptly.
I struck the same place again.
He deflected my fist and responded with an elbow against my temple. Frank saw the movement, but the proximity left us insufficient time. The impact produced a deeper ringing inside my right ear.
I did not release him.
Batman slipped his arm beneath mine, rotated his hips, and hooked my leg. We fell together. My back struck the concrete, the trench coat and panels distributing some of the impact before his full weight landed above me.
He placed one knee on my right arm and reached for my left wrist. I brought up my legs, placed one foot against his hip, and pushed. Frank added his strength to the movement.
Batman was thrown to the side. He rolled over one shoulder and regained his feet before I did.
I followed.
We stopped for one second, long enough for the pain to reclaim its place inside my body. My cheekbone was already swelling. Blood ran toward the corner of my mouth. My right knee pulsed whenever I shifted weight onto it. My jaw felt as though it had been displaced and returned without my consent.
Batman held his left arm slightly closer to his ribs. His breathing was deeper. The armor had absorbed my blows, but not entirely.
Pierce stood several meters away beside Gordon. Her face was tense, but beneath the rain and the projector's light, I could read no more. She saw two men moving too quickly for her to analyze every hold and strike. More importantly, she saw I continued refusing to obey.
"Beaumont, step back now!"
Batman advanced before I could answer.
His hand dropped toward his belt.
Frank tracked the motion.
"Left. Small object."
A black capsule appeared between his fingers. I changed angle before he could throw it and struck his arm with my shoulder. The capsule fell onto the concrete and rolled beneath the projector without opening.
Batman seized my wrist, struck the nerve above my elbow, and turned my arm behind my back. I followed the rotation, passed beneath his hold, and returned to face him. His foot swept toward mine, but I jumped just enough to avoid the hook.
The landing on my right knee was poor.
Pain slowed my second step.
Batman entered immediately.
Two short strikes. The first beneath my ribs near the edge of the panel. The second behind my ear.
Frank absorbed part of the first impact. The second traveled through my head like a bell struck from within. My vision narrowed, Batman's outline becoming momentarily too sharp in the center and blurred around the edges.
I remained standing from habit before remaining standing from will.
Ted said a man did not need to lose consciousness to stop fighting. His body only needed to accept the fall before his mind did.
Mine refused.
I seized Batman's forearm. He attempted to pull away, but Frank reinforced my fingers. He had to use his second hand to break the grip. I struck his sternum, then lower, then his left ribs again.
The chest armor absorbed the first two. He deflected the third and responded with a palm beneath my chin. I allowed my head to follow the movement to reduce the impact. My right arm passed beneath his and locked his elbow.
He pivoted. I followed.
Our hips collided. He attempted a throw. I lowered myself farther and hooked his leg.
We rotated around the projector's base, each searching for the transfer of weight that would break the other's balance. Batman possessed more techniques. I felt it every time he changed grips without hesitation, every time one angle immediately became another. I possessed more strength in that moment, and Frank watched what I could not see.
"Right hand. Belt."
I released his wrist for a fraction of a second, passed my forearm around his neck, and positioned myself behind him. Batman tucked his chin. The reinforced collar prevented my hold from dropping completely.
I blocked his leg with mine, pulled his right wrist toward his own side, and pushed him against the base. His cape briefly caught between his back and the metal structure.
One second.
No more.
My forearm moved beneath his jaw above the collar. The angle was poor for full compression, but Frank's strength prevented him from simply tearing away my arm. I controlled his right wrist and pressed his shoulder into the metal.
His left hand dropped toward his belt.
"Gadget," Frank warned.
I tightened the hold and brought my mouth close to his ear. The projector rumbled behind us. Rain struck the metal. Gordon and Pierce stood several meters away, focused on our arms and footing, with no reason to watch my lips.
"I know who you are," I whispered.
Batman continued struggling.
I felt the muscles of his back move beneath the armor.
"Bruce Wayne."
His body froze.
A fraction of a second.
Not enough to be visible from the opposite side of the roof. Not enough to look like anything other than momentary resistance inside an already confused fight.
But I felt it in his wrist, his breathing, and the tension of his neck against my forearm.
I no longer had a theory.
I had confirmation.
His thumb reached a device hidden inside his glove.
A dry click.
The electrical discharge traveled through my forearm, climbed into my shoulder, and exploded across my chest. My muscles contracted before the pain fully existed. My fingers closed so violently my joints cracked, then opened against my will.
Frank received the shock through the fusion. His presence tore inside my body like an image pulled in several directions at once.
"Malcolm!"
My teeth slammed together. White light erased the roof.
I released Batman.
He immediately pivoted, placed his palm against my sternum, and created two meters of distance. I staggered backward without control over my legs. He threw a capsule onto the ground.
Black smoke exploded between us.
Pierce coughed. Gordon shouted something I did not understand. I attempted to advance despite the spasms, but my right leg reacted too late. Frank tried to reassemble his cohesion, his perceptions mixing with mine without order.
A whistling sound crossed the smoke.
Grappling hook.
I raised my eyes quickly enough to see a shadow pass over the ledge.
Then nothing.
The wind slowly tore apart the black cloud.
Batman was gone.
I remained standing for several seconds, more from refusing to give the roof such a clean conclusion than from actual stability. My knee then gave way. I placed one hand against the wet concrete.
Pierce appeared before me and knelt. Her hair now clung to her cheek, and the anger in her gaze was clear enough to survive the rain.
"Do not move."
"He's gone."
She looked at me as though deciding between checking my pupils and striking me herself.
"I noticed."
Two fingers pressed against my neck. She checked my pulse, then moved one hand before my eyes.
"Did you lose consciousness?"
"No."
Frank contracted weakly inside me.
"Not completely."
I followed Pierce's finger.
Gordon stood near the ledge, watching the place where Batman had disappeared. His raincoat was covered with rain and smoke. When he turned, his face showed neither admiration nor surprise. Only dry anger directed at the entire situation.
"Infirmary," he ordered.
I attempted to stand.
"I'm fine."
Pierce seized me beneath the arm before my knee could decide otherwise.
"You just received a discharge strong enough to lock every muscle in your body. You are going to be examined. Then we are going to talk."
She looked toward Gordon.
"All three of us."
It was not a request.
The GCPD physician was named Calder. He had short white hair, round glasses, and the expression of a man who had already heard too many police officers explain that chest pain did not count as long as they could still walk.
His infirmary occupied a narrow room on the second floor, with two beds separated by a green curtain, a dented metal cabinet, and the smell of disinfectant strong enough to almost completely cover the cold coffee from the corridor.
Calder made me remove my trench coat, jacket, and shirt. The badge remained around my neck until he asked me to remove it so he could place electrodes on my chest. The leather case struck the metal table softly.
Brand-new.
Not a single scratch.
I was less fortunate.
He examined my cheekbone, lip, ribs, and right knee. His fingers pressed several areas of my chest while he watched me breathe.
"Where did the discharge enter?"
"Left forearm. Direct contact."
"How long?"
"Less than two seconds."
"Did you lose consciousness?"
"No."
Pierce stood beside the door with her arms crossed. She neither confirmed nor disputed the answer and did not look away.
Calder studied the electrocardiogram.
"Elevated rhythm, but regular. No visible burn. Spasms?"
I moved my fingers.
"Still some."
"Chest pain?"
"Several contusions."
He looked up.
"I am asking whether your chest hurts, not whether you have already decided why."
I inhaled more deeply. My left ribs immediately protested.
"Yes. Along the sides. Not the center."
"Dizziness?"
"Mild."
"Nausea?"
"No."
He wrote something inside my file, then checked my pupils again.
"You remain under observation for one hour. Report central pain, breathing difficulty, confusion, persistent numbness, memory loss, or worsening dizziness."
I put my shirt back on.
"I have an active investigation."
Calder did not even raise his eyes from the form.
"And I have a patient who believes his job description constitutes a medical objection. We are both very busy."
Pierce briefly turned her face away. Not a smile, only the instinctive reaction to a sentence that might have been funny in another room.
Calder handed me two cold packs.
"One for the face, one for the knee."
I took the first.
"And the ribs?"
"Avoid being struck again."
He carefully put away his pen.
"I know that advice sounds revolutionary. Try it anyway."
When he left the room, Pierce remained beside the door. I pressed the cold pack against my cheekbone. The plastic crackled beneath my fingers, and the pain slowly became numbness.
Frank had not separated. His presence remained unstable, thinner in certain parts of my body, as though he still occupied the same space without managing to fully anchor himself there.
Pierce watched me for several seconds. She did not appear to be searching for anything specific in my posture or injuries. She was simply verifying I remained capable of walking into the next conversation.
"Can you stand?"
"Yes."
I placed my right foot on the floor. The knee protested but held.
"Good," she said as she opened the door. "Gordon's office."
Bullock waited for us in the corridor, leaning against a radiator that did not appear to work. His brown coat looked even more wrinkled after the rain. He examined my cheekbone, the cold pack, and the way I slightly protected my right leg.
"Does he hit hard?"
Pierce stopped before him.
"Not now."
Bullock raised one hand.
"I was only asking."
"And you have your answer."
He looked at me more carefully.
"You're still standing."
"For now."
There was no genuine mockery in his expression. Only rough curiosity, perhaps even a form of respect I had no desire to receive for that reason.
Pierce opened the door to Gordon's office.
"Detective, we need to speak privately."
Bullock looked toward Gordon, already seated behind his desk. He nodded. Bullock retrieved his hat from the back of a chair and passed beside me.
"Nobody had ever tried putting handcuffs on him on that roof."
I turned my head toward him.
He immediately understood the evening would not become a barroom story. His face became serious again.
"I hope it was worth what it is going to cost you."
Then he left.
The door closed behind him.
Gordon's office overlooked the square outside the station. Rain still drew slanted lines across the windows, and the extinguished projector appeared in the reflection like a black mass above the building. A desk lamp spread yellow light over files stacked with too much precision to have been left by Bullock.
Pierce placed her notebook on the desk without sitting. Gordon remained standing behind his chair. I took the seat nearest the door because my knee now pulsed in time with my heart and remaining upright would prove nothing useful.
Pierce looked at Gordon.
"I am going to review the facts in order, because what happened on the roof must not erase what caused it."
Gordon crossed his arms.
"I'm listening."
"You requested FBI assistance on a series of homicides involving interstate elements. You accepted joint command, a shared timeline, and a common log. You then removed photographs, a preliminary report, and an old case from the room to provide them to a man subject to an arrest warrant. That dissemination was recorded nowhere. Neither the Bureau nor your own task force was informed."
Gordon did not attempt to deny it.
"And now we know the suspect's name."
He said the sentence almost exactly as he had on the roof. He was not repeating it to provoke us. He still believed it. Perhaps even more strongly after the fight, because the result remained the only part of the evening he considered unquestionably useful.
Pierce nodded slowly.
"Yes. Victor Zsasz is an important lead. I will record it as information from a confidential source known to you. That does not make the dissemination the correct decision."
Gordon removed his glasses. Without them, fatigue carved his face more deeply.
"Without Batman, you would still be searching for a faceless man."
"Perhaps."
The answer surprised him enough that he froze for one second. Pierce was not pretending the Bureau would have immediately found the name. She did not need to rewrite reality to defend her position.
"The name is useful," she continued. "Its usefulness does not erase its source, the conditions under which you obtained it, or what you provided in exchange."
Gordon placed his glasses on the desk.
"You have been here for several hours. You worked inside a room I selected, with men I still consider reliable. You have not seen how many reports change desks before reaching mine. How many raids are compromised. How many officers call a bookmaker, a lieutenant in the underworld, or an attorney before vehicles even leave the garage."
Pierce did not look away.
"I do not deny that your department is compromised."
"It is not only my department. It is City Hall, the courts, public contracts, and the prisons. Certain families in this city own people inside every room where a decision can be delayed."
He placed one hand on the back of his chair.
"Batman gave me information that allowed children to be removed from buildings before corrupt police officers realized we knew where they were. He identified men no witness dared name. He prevented murders."
"I do not deny his results either."
"Then what are you asking me to do? Refuse a source because he wears a mask?"
Pierce took time to answer. Her anger did not appear in her volume. It appeared in the precision with which she refused to allow an incomplete sentence to pass as justification.
"I am asking you not to build a clandestine department around a man nobody can identify, control, or question about his methods."
Gordon slowly replaced his glasses.
"I do not control him."
"That is precisely what should worry you."
"He does not work for me."
"You switch on a projector above police headquarters to summon him. You provide him with evidence and ask him to identify a suspect. The distinction will be difficult to defend when an attorney asks whether he was acting as an agent of the state."
Gordon straightened.
"I do not give him orders."
"That is not the only criterion. If he acts at your request, with police information, and for the purpose of producing something for your investigation, his trespasses may become your problem. His seizures may be challenged as warrantless government searches. His interrogations may contaminate everything he reports."
She opened her notebook, not to review her notes, but to place one finger against an empty page as though the simple gesture represented the record that had been missing until now.
"Even if a judge refuses to consider him an agent of the state, the defense will ask where he entered, what he touched, what he moved, whom he struck, and what you knew before using his lead. If nobody can answer, every item derived from it becomes vulnerable."
Gordon looked toward the window. The extinguished projector remained visible behind his reflection.
"You want me to document a relationship that works precisely because it does not follow normal channels."
"I want you to document what affects our investigation. You can protect the identity of your source, since you claim not to know it. You can restrict sensitive details. But you cannot make the existence of information or the transfer of evidence disappear."
"And if the log endangers the source?"
"Then a secured log mentions only dissemination to a confidential source known to you, his level of reliability, and the general nature of the material provided. The detail remains restricted. But it exists somewhere."
Gordon watched her for a long time.
"You have worked with violent informants."
"Yes."
"Gang members, traffickers, people who lied to reduce their sentences."
"Yes. And their interests, access, reliability, and the limits of their cooperation were documented. We did not give them complete scenes so they could conduct their own unsupervised investigation."
The silence that followed did not resemble victory. Gordon was not changing his mind about Batman. Pierce did not expect him to. They were only searching for the minimum boundary allowing a joint investigation to continue existing.
Gordon finally looked at the closed file before him.
"I knew he might know Zsasz. I did not have the name before going upstairs."
Pierce frowned slightly.
"Why did you think he knew him?"
"One of Bullock's informants heard about a scarred man who arranged the dead. Batman was already working that lead."
"That information should have been inside the task force."
"It was unconfirmed."
Pierce slowly exhaled through her nose.
"Captain, this entire investigation exists because unconfirmed information is compared, tested, eliminated, or strengthened. You cannot withhold a lead because it is uncertain, then blame us for not finding the name before your source."
Gordon briefly lowered his eyes.
For the first time, his argument encountered a limit he could not bypass through urgency or results. He did not admit he had been wrong. He was not ready to.
"Write your report," he said.
"I will. Price will be notified of the undeclared dissemination, active warrant, and confrontation on the roof. From this point onward, any information from Batman will be treated as coming from a confidential source known to you. You will provide an assessment of his prior reliability. Every item will be independently verified, and nothing obtained through an unlawful entry will enter the case directly."
Gordon adjusted his glasses properly.
"And if his information allows us to save someone before your verification is complete?"
"Then we will act according to the genuine urgency and explain afterward why we did so. That is not the same as erasing every trace before the urgency even exists."
Gordon remained silent for several seconds, then nodded. Not because she had convinced him regarding Batman. Because he understood he would no longer receive our cooperation without that boundary.
Pierce closed her notebook.
Then she turned toward me.
I had known this part was coming since she seized me beneath the arm on the roof. Gordon's fault erased nothing I had done afterward. She slowly moved around the chair and stopped before me, her hands resting on the back of the empty seat.
"You were right about the leak," she began. "The warrant was also active. You therefore had a legal basis to consider an arrest."
Gordon stiffened slightly, but Pierce continued before he could interrupt.
"That does not mean you had a realistic plan for carrying it out. You had no perimeter, no support team, no complete information about his equipment, and no coordination with the local department."
"Gordon was letting him leave."
"I know. I was on the roof."
The answer landed harder than shouting would have.
Pierce did not move.
"You left him behind in the stairwell. You left me behind as well. You saw the signal, decided you knew what was happening, and acted before I could even ask what you had understood."
"We needed to get upstairs quickly."
"Going quickly did not require going alone."
"He might have left before we arrived."
"Perhaps. But imagine you succeeded. You put the handcuffs on him, and then what? You take him down six floors by yourself? You count on Gordon to help arrest the man he just summoned? Had you planned transportation, seizure of his equipment, the possible presence of explosives, or an escape method we did not know about?"
I had no complete answer.
I had possessed an objective.
Not an operation.
Pierce saw it before I opened my mouth.
"You were not carrying out a prepared arrest," she continued. "You reacted."
"The warrant remained valid."
"I am not criticizing you for wanting to enforce it. I am criticizing you for deciding your will was sufficient to replace everything else."
Her fingers tightened around the back of the chair. Her anger did not diminish, but it had stopped searching for short sentences. She wanted me to understand exactly what I had done to our partnership.
"He was leaving with what he knew," I answered.
"The documents were still on the roof."
"He knew their contents."
"Yes. And fighting him did not erase what he saw. It did, however, allow him to leave without answering a single additional question, distract Gordon from the leak, and force Price to examine your conduct instead of focusing only on Zsasz."
Every consequence found its place. I had known them all separately. Pierce placed them together.
"This morning, you asked me to judge your leads for concrete reasons," she continued. "You asked me not to reduce you to a publicized case or statistics. I agreed to let you show me how you work."
She paused, then added more quietly:
"And the first time you decided a situation was important enough, you left without me. You did not try explaining what you understood. You simply decided I would slow you down."
"That is not what I thought."
"Perhaps. It is still exactly the position you gave me."
I looked at the cold pack resting against my knee. She was right about that. I could defend the warrant, the leak, and the urgency until morning. None of it changed the fact that I had allowed the stairwell door to close in her face.
"I thought he would leave before we arrived."
"He might have."
Pierce slowly moved around the chair and stopped closer to me.
"Being partners does not mean we will always have ten minutes to discuss things. It means that even when we have only seconds, you give me the opportunity to act with you. You did not."
"No."
"And when I ordered you to disengage, you heard me."
I raised my eyes toward her.
"Yes."
"You simply decided to continue."
It was not a question.
"Yes."
Pierce slowly nodded, absorbing the answer without satisfaction. She was not looking for an excuse or a promise made too quickly to be credible.
"Then do not tell me it will never happen again. I would not believe you. Show me only, during the next urgent decision, that my presence matters before everything is over."
My jaw tightened beneath the pain.
"It matters."
"Tonight, that was not visible."
I did not answer immediately. An apology offered too quickly would only shorten the conversation, not repair what she described.
"Then I will need to prove it another way."
"Yes," she said. "You will."
Gordon watched us from behind his desk. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer.
"All this over a man you had never met before tonight."
I turned toward him.
"I knew what he represented before seeing him."
The sentence came out more quickly than I intended. Pierce frowned slightly, but asked nothing. Nothing in my words required imagining secret knowledge. Batman was already a precise enough rumor in Gotham for a federal agent to form an opinion.
I continued more carefully.
"I know the kind of method he uses."
Gordon leaned against his desk.
"You hate him."
"I hate what he represents."
Pierce remained silent. She was waiting for the rest, not a slogan.
I removed the cold pack from my cheekbone and placed it on the armrest. Water ran along my palm.
"He decides alone whom to watch, where to enter, what to seize, whom to question, whom to strike, and what information the police deserve. He has no public name, no superior, no independent oversight, and no obligation to explain his mistakes."
Gordon answered immediately:
"He saves lives."
"I know."
My voice was more tired than angry.
"I never said he was useless. That is precisely what makes his method dangerous. It works often enough that people begin treating questions like obstacles."
Gordon shook his head.
"You speak as though I chose between a perfect system and him. The system here is rotten."
"Then repair what you can and protect the investigations you cannot repair alone. Do not replace a failing institution with a man who has none."
"Easy to say when you arrive carrying the federal seal and can leave in one week."
The sentence struck because it contained truth.
I did not live here. I had not spent years watching colleagues sell witness addresses, judges delay warrants, or informants disappear after a leak.
"Yes," I answered. "I can leave. You cannot. That does not give you fewer reasons to use him. It gives you more reasons to decide what you are willing to allow him to do."
Gordon looked at the files stacked before him.
"And while we define the limits, who prevents the next murder?"
"We do. He can as well, if he shares what he knows instead of conducting his own war around us."
Pierce picked up her notebook.
"This discussion will not be resolved tonight. But the rules of our task force are. We have a name. We will now verify whether it corresponds to a real man, a history, and evidence. Everything else will be addressed in the appropriate reports."
Gordon nodded.
I returned the cold pack to my cheek.
The meeting was over.
The conflict was not.
Frank waited until I was alone inside the third-floor restroom before attempting to separate. His form slowly emerged from my body. One shoulder appeared first, translucent and unstable, then his torso. His legs remained connected to mine for several seconds before he managed to step back.
He placed one hand against the wall. His fingers partly passed through the tiles, and he had to try again before his palm remained on the surface. His uniform looked darker than usual. The old wounds across his chest gave off pale-blue light reflected faintly in the mirror.
"You should remain inside," I murmured.
"I needed space."
His mental voice sounded farther away, as though part of him were speaking from the opposite end of a corridor.
I passed water over my lip. The mirror showed me a swollen cheekbone, a cut at the corner of my mouth, and my federal badge hanging around my neck as though none of this were unusual.
Frank watched our reflection.
"Next time, warn me before pulling me inside."
I shut off the faucet.
"There was no time."
"I know."
He did not say it with anger. Only fatigue.
"I am not asking you to promise you will never do it again. You can force the fusion. You always have. But half a second would have kept me from entering at the wrong angle while you were already running."
I dried my hands.
"I'm sorry."
Frank nodded slightly. He accepted the apology without trying to turn it into a more serious scene than necessary.
Then his gaze changed.
"Pierce is right."
I leaned against the sink.
"About which part?"
"The part where you decided alone that your objective mattered more than everything else."
"Batman was leaving."
"Yes."
"Gordon was giving him our information."
"Yes."
"The warrant was active."
"Still yes."
I tightened my jaw.
"Are you working toward a point?"
Frank looked down at his still-unstable hand.
"You hate Batman because he decides alone what is necessary. Tonight, you recalled me without warning, left Pierce behind, and started a fight on a roof. You had good reasons. Gordon believes he has good reasons too."
"We are not the same."
"I didn't say we were."
He raised his head.
"I am only saying the boundary always looks clearer from your side."
The observation irritated me because it was accurate.
I looked toward the closed door.
"I was attempting to enforce a warrant."
"And he will say he was attempting to stop a killer before the next victim. Both of you possess a clean sentence explaining what you wanted. The question is what you decided to stop seeing while doing it."
His image flickered. I reached toward him by reflex, but my fingers passed through his wrist.
Frank gave a weak smile.
"I'm going back before I end up inside the plumbing."
This time, I waited. He approached, and the fusion happened slowly, with his consent. His presence settled inside my body without impact.
The ability had not changed.
The way I used it had.
At 11:47 p.m., Victor Elias Zsasz officially entered our file. Not as an arrested suspect or even a legally established perpetrator. Only as a major lead from a confidential source known to Gordon.
Pierce called Price from a glass-walled room. The conversation lasted more than twenty minutes. I could not hear her words, but I watched her posture change during the call. One hand on her hip. Then both hands on the table. Then her gaze toward me through the glass while she probably described the confrontation on the roof.
When she returned, her expression revealed nothing comfortable.
"Price wants a preliminary report before eight. The incident on the roof will be handled separately. We remain assigned to the Zsasz investigation until further notice."
Relief arrived before I could hide it.
Pierce noticed. She made no comment.
I wanted to remain. Not only to prove I was not a problem or to beat Batman in his own race. Zsasz had already killed too many people for my mistake to become an excuse to look away.
The GCPD analyst began the initial searches. Victor Elias Zsasz, thirty-six years old, born in Gotham, only son of Conrad and Helena Zsasz.
The earliest articles showed a man very different from the diner's silhouette. His dark hair was carefully styled, his face fuller, his suits custom-tailored. In gala photographs, he smiled with the restraint of someone who knew exactly where every camera stood.
His family name appeared in finance, real estate, maritime transport, and several foundations. Pierce scrolled through the results with her arms crossed before the screen.
"He did not merely inherit."
The analyst nodded.
"At twenty-two, he already ran Zsasz Global Holdings. Expansion into three countries in less than four years, purchase of two competitors, sale of a technology division immediately before its financial collapse."
Bullock entered carrying four coffees. He placed one before Gordon, one before Pierce, one beside me, then kept the last.
"So our man was a prodigy."
Pierce examined an old financial portrait.
"Or very well supported. But he personally signed some of the decisions. The articles emphasize his memory and ability to negotiate without notes."
The journalist described Victor as methodical, aggressive in business, and capable of retaining complex figures after a single reading.
"High intelligence," Gordon said.
"And a need for control," I added.
Pierce turned toward me. I explained before she needed to ask.
"His career shows he planned over the long term. His scenes do as well. Even when the victim appears randomly selected, the way the person is approached, killed, and repositioned is not."
She wrote down the observation.
His parents' deaths appeared in records eleven years earlier. The family yacht struck a submerged structure off Gotham during a storm. Both bodies were recovered.
Victor was twenty-five.
Photographs from the funeral showed him standing between two attorneys, his face almost empty. After that date, the financial records changed abruptly. Extended absences, contradictory decisions, rushed sales, transfers to Monaco, Macau, Singapore, Atlantic City, and several private gambling circles.
Bullock read the articles while holding his coffee with both hands.
"International competitions. Poker, baccarat, private tables. He was not exactly visiting back rooms where people bet ten dollars over an overturned crate."
Pierce aligned several dates.
"The losses increase after every asset sale."
Gordon leaned over the screen.
"He was trying to recover what he lost?"
She slowly shook her head.
"At first, perhaps. Afterward, he no longer protects anything. He sells, gambles, loses, and sells again. It is no longer a financial strategy."
Frank watched the screens from inside me.
"He was trying to feel something."
The memory fit. Victor had not merely lost his fortune. He had sacrificed it to postpone the moment when he would need to remain alone with his parents' deaths.
The last major financial movements passed through several companies connected to the Iceberg Lounge. The name immediately made Bullock react.
"Cobblepot."
Pierce turned her head toward him.
"Oswald Cobblepot?"
"Official owner of the Iceberg Lounge. Unofficially, he finances part of the city he claims not to know."
Gordon added:
"Nothing clean enough to convict him on the major cases."
The analyst displayed the transfers. Liquidated collateral, sold shares, personal loans, then a final night when several accounts emptied within hours.
Victor had wagered almost everything he owned.
And lost.
"Against Cobblepot?" I asked.
Bullock placed down his coffee.
"The Iceberg's private tables do not publish results. A former employee said Zsasz played directly against him, but changed his story before we could interview him officially."
Pierce wrote down the name without transforming it into a new investigation.
"We will request preservation of the financial records and any remaining surveillance. The goal is to establish Zsasz's timeline, not open a case against Cobblepot without foundation."
Bullock looked toward Gordon.
"Obtaining anything from the Iceberg will take time."
"Then we begin now," Pierce answered.
The night on the bridge appeared in a poorly classified report. Three hours after the last transfers connected to the Iceberg Lounge, Victor Zsasz's car was found near Gotham Bridge. Door locked, telephone inside, wallet missing.
One witness reported a man in a suit standing beyond the pedestrian barrier. A second call mentioned an altercation near the north entrance.
Beneath the bridge, a homeless man was found dead from a knife wound.
Howard Bell, fifty-four years old.
No weapon recovered.
No direct witness.
Zsasz was never officially questioned. He disappeared before anyone considered a connection.
Pierce aligned the times.
"How long between the call about the man on the barrier and the discovery of the body?"
"Twenty-six minutes," the analyst answered.
Gordon reviewed the report.
"The officer handling the vehicle noted it belonged to Zsasz. The homicide went to another team. Nobody connected the files."
Bullock passed one hand over his face.
"A billionaire's abandoned car on a bridge and a stabbed man several hundred meters away. Two teams, two sectors, two reports."
His voice contained no surprise. Only old fatigue.
Frank and I knew more. The bridge was not merely proximity. Victor intended to jump. Howard Bell attempted to attack him with a blade. Victor took the weapon, killed him, and interpreted the moment as revelation.
But our file contained only one car, two calls, and one body.
Private truth remained private.
"Search for the first compatible murders after that date," I said. "Begin with six months, then expand."
Pierce looked at the timeline.
"You think Bell might have been the first?"
"It is possible. The abandoned car, Zsasz's disappearance, and the temporal proximity are consistent. Not sufficient to conclude."
"And the following scenes?"
"If the bridge was the breaking point, they should appear shortly afterward and be less controlled than the recent ones."
Gordon nodded.
"We search for neck wounds, positioned bodies, and secondary cuts."
Bullock returned to Archives. Two hours later, he came back carrying three boxes covered in gray dust that immediately clung to the sleeves of his coat.
The first case involved a twenty-seven-year-old woman found inside a closed movie theater. Seated in a chair with an empty cup between her hands, throat cut. A small superficial incision on her left forearm had been classified as an unusual defensive wound.
The date was three weeks after the bridge.
The second victim was a sixty-year-old man found in a clinic waiting room with a form resting on his knees. The third, a twenty-year-old student, had been positioned before a washing machine with a basket of clothes at her feet.
The scenes were less controlled than the recent ones. More blood remained visible. The hands held the objects less effectively. The positions looked almost right, but not yet enough to delay understanding for long.
The killer had learned.
Bullock examined the photographs.
"Preference for young women."
Pierce shook her head.
"Possible, but not exclusive. We already have several men and very different ages. If we build the profile around a narrow category, we may overlook the next victim."
She wrote on the board:
POSSIBLE PREFERENCE. NO EXCLUSIONS.
I looked at the photographs.
"His victims are random. His scenes never are."
Gordon turned toward me. The sentence had the shape of a conclusion, so I explained before it became more certain than our evidence.
"No personal connection holds so far. In contrast, he selects places where a lone person can be approached, killed quickly, and placed inside an ordinary gesture. He may not prepare the victim. He prepares the way the victim will be discovered."
Pierce looked at the map.
"He chooses randomly inside a controlled environment."
"That is the strongest theory."
She recorded it as such.
Victor's recent license photograph appeared next. Shaved head, hollow cheeks, thinner body, fixed gaze. Lena was called in for a blind photographic lineup.
Six images. An agent who did not know which one represented our main lead. Clear instructions that the man might not appear in the set.
We watched from another room. Lena passed the first three photographs without reaction. She slowed on the fourth.
Victor Zsasz.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table. She continued to the end, then asked to see the image again.
"He looks like him," she said.
The agent asked about her level of certainty. Lena studied the face for a long time.
"Sixty percent. Maybe seventy. He was thinner than in the photograph. The light was bad. But the eyes... I think they are the same."
Not a formal identification.
Not enough for an arrest.
Enough to strengthen the lead.
Pierce made sure her exact words were recorded. When Lena left, she remained before the glass for several seconds before turning toward me.
"We have a serious suspect. We do not yet have probable cause sufficient to arrest him for the homicides."
"I know."
"I prefer saying it clearly."
After the roof, she had the right to verify we still spoke the same language.
"You are right."
She looked at me, then returned to the board. The answer erased nothing. It at least stopped making things worse.
Batman had a head start.
We did not know how much.
We found the first confirmation inside Victor Zsasz's former apartment in Coventry. The landlord, Harold Venn, signed written consent at 7:10 after reading every line twice and asking whether the government would reimburse potential damage.
Pierce explained his authorization covered no destruction and added the clarification by hand. He signed only after rereading it.
The apartment stood on the fourth floor. My knee protested during the first flight of stairs, but I did not alter my pace enough to invite comment. Pierce noticed anyway. She said nothing.
The interior had been empty for several months. The dark floor retained the paler outline of former furniture. Clean rectangles showed where frames had been removed from the gray walls. The kitchen was narrow, the bathroom had no window, and several holes had been filled with plaster of a slightly different shade.
Frank emerged from me while Venn remained in the corridor with Gordon. His form was still pale, but his cohesion had recovered enough for him to cross the rooms without flickering.
"Nobody. Nothing recent in the cupboards. There is an open access panel behind the bathroom, but only pipes."
Pierce approached the living-room window. The lock appeared closed. I placed one finger near the handle without touching it.
The mechanism was not fully engaged.
Dust on the ledge had been disturbed at one angle. Outside, a dark mark appeared along the vertical pipe.
"Someone entered through this window," I said.
Pierce crouched near the ledge.
"Can you date it?"
"Probably since the rain began. The surrounding dust is damp. The disturbed area dried differently."
Gordon examined the facade from inside.
"Fourth floor."
Bullock leaned forward in turn.
"You know many visitors who use windows?"
Pierce removed her camera.
"We document before attributing."
A small black fragment was caught inside the metal. She had it photographed and then sealed.
Frank returned toward me.
"Grappling-hook mark on the neighboring roof's ledge. He was here."
I looked at the window. The information gave us nothing more legally. Only confirmation Batman had searched the apartment before us.
Pierce stood.
"He is ahead of us."
"Very probably."
"What supports that?"
I gestured toward the access point.
"The height, the poorly locked window, the dark fragment, the mark on the pipe, and the lack of movement through the common areas. Nothing is sufficient alone. Together, they match his method."
She nodded.
Inside the stairwell, she walked beside me.
"You could have given me a vague answer."
"You would have asked me to clarify."
"Yes."
We descended one floor before she continued.
"That is what I expect from you. Not perfection. An answer I can follow."
I watched the steps.
"I can do that."
"We'll see."
There was still no warmth between us. Not yet. But it was no longer only an accusation.
It was a possibility.
The financial searches eventually revealed the Mercer Recovery Annex, a former support center funded by the Zsasz Foundation. The building had served people with addictions, psychiatric emergencies, suicidal ideation, and unstable housing.
It closed four years earlier after structural problems and an inheritance dispute. Yet minimal electrical service remained active. Bills were paid by a dormant account linked to a family trust Victor had never completely liquidated.
Pierce enlarged the plans.
"There were still maintenance visits after his disappearance."
The analyst nodded.
"Two electrical inspections, one boiler repair, and a lock change eighteen months ago."
"Who requested the lock change?"
"The managing company. The contractor exists, but not the name of the person who made the call."
Bullock examined the map.
"The neighborhood is almost empty at night. Elevated tracks, warehouses, abandoned station."
Gordon placed one hand on the back of the chair.
"The family built that center to prevent people from dying."
I looked at the old photographs of the building. Volunteers, clean rooms, posters promising a crisis could pass. Victor might see something else, proof that help only delayed the inevitable.
Frank materialized near the screen.
"I can look."
"No."
He turned toward me.
"The building is abandoned."
"Still private property."
"Batman will not wait for a warrant."
"I know."
Frank studied the plan.
"Nobody would know I entered."
I kept my eyes on the screen.
"I would know. And if I use what you see to justify an entry without legal grounds, everything I said on the roof becomes only a rule for other people."
He remained silent for several seconds.
"And if someone is inside?"
"Then we need an objective indication of immediate danger. Not only our memories and an electricity bill."
Frank was not satisfied.
Neither was I.
Procedure possessed an admirable quality when viewed afterward. Beforehand, it sometimes looked only like time a victim might not have.
At 9:42, Bullock's phone rang. He answered, and his face changed almost immediately.
"Send the images. Now."
He hung up.
"A woman has been missing for approximately forty minutes from Burnley Terminal. Her coworker saw her leave with a man matching our internal alert."
Pierce stood.
"Name?"
"Elise Navarro. Thirty-nine. Employee at a travel agency. She was supposed to take the train with her coworker. Her phone is off."
The first images appeared on the screen. A brunette in a red coat spoke with a thin man with a shaved head.
His face was partly visible.
Victor Zsasz.
Not absolute certainty.
Enough to feel time tightening around us.
He was not forcing her. He walked slightly bent toward her as though they were continuing an ordinary conversation.
The second camera showed them leaving the terminal toward the east.
"Time?" Pierce asked.
"Fifty-two minutes ago."
"Did her coworker know him?"
"No. She thought he was asking for directions."
I examined the route. Terminal, Bristol Street, passage beneath the elevated tracks, East End.
The Mercer Recovery Annex lay in that direction.
"The center is along their probable route."
Pierce followed the line with one finger.
"There are also dozens of other buildings."
"Yes. But it is the only one still financially connected to Zsasz, isolated, and powered. Strong theory, not a confirmed location."
She nodded.
"We obtain every camera along that route. Request immediate preservation of phone data. Gordon, send units to observe the exterior of the Mercer Annex. Observation only for now."
Gordon removed his phone.
A message arrived before he placed the call.
He read the screen, and his face closed.
Pierce saw it immediately.
"What is it?"
"Nothing confirmed."
She held out one hand.
"Captain."
Gordon remained motionless for several seconds, then turned the phone toward us.
MERCER ANNEX. BASEMENT.
No visible sender.
No need to ask.
Batman.
Pierce immediately removed her device and photographed the message.
"This information enters the log."
Gordon nodded.
"Confidential source known to me. Prior reliability high. Information uncorroborated."
Pierce wrote down the exact words.
"We request a limited order while traveling. The outside units observe. They enter only if they identify an immediate emergency."
I looked at the time.
Batman would not follow those instructions. He had never agreed to receive them.
"He is probably already on his way," I said.
Pierce put away her notebook.
"So are we."
She turned toward me. Her gaze did not last long, but it contained everything we had just said inside Gordon's office.
"You stay with me."
"Yes."
"No detour. No roof. No individual initiative."
The wording could have irritated me. It only reminded me what I had created.
"I stay with you."
Pierce held my gaze, then nodded. She was choosing to trust me just enough to act.
Pierce drove. Gordon and Bullock followed inside a GCPD vehicle while two units converged on the East End without sirens during the final miles.
The rain had stopped, but the streets remained covered with water. Pillars beneath the elevated line regularly cut the light across the windshield.
Victor Zsasz's photograph remained displayed on the screen between the seats. It was several years old. His face looked fuller, his hair still present, and his suit expensive enough to feed a family for months.
Nothing revealed the scars.
Pierce held the wheel with both hands.
"The outside units arrive in four minutes. They observe only. Nobody enters without confirmation of an emergency or authorization."
I watched the rooftops pass.
"Batman will not wait."
"We are not Batman."
Her voice remained calm. Not a lecture. A boundary placed between the previous night and what we were about to do.
"I know."
Her gaze left the road for one second and settled on me.
The secure phone rang. Pierce read the message, and her fingers tightened around the wheel.
"The exterior camera at the Mercer Annex just went dark."
Frank watched the structures through my perception. I felt his attention settle on a shadow disappearing behind a cornice.
Perhaps Batman.
Perhaps only Gotham.
Blue emergency light reflected across the wet pillars.
We had a name, a face, a potential victim, and an address.
Batman still had the advantage.
Pierce accelerated.
This time, I remained beside her.