Batman: The Chill of Old Ghosts

The Chill of Old Ghosts

I.

In the warehouse, back in Metropolis, Alfred steps timid and quiet as he walks toward the storage unit. He sees a pale glow shining up from the roof of the container and frets further, gripping his bag tighter and hastening his step. He gets within a few feet and sets the bag down again. In his hand, a switch. He hovers his thumb over the remote button and wrestles with the consequence of whatever decision he may choose. As he struggles to commit, a voice almost tears him from his skin.

“Who’s there?” the call comes from inside the container. No turning back now.

As the pink sky dies to become black, the Gotham rain pours from the darkness above and sparkles over the grim, dank skyline.

Jim Gordon, Commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, gathers his troops to form a perimeter of patrol cars, blocking off the Gotham roads surrounding the Monarch Theatre for blocks. He waits patiently in the rain as Detective Harvey Bullock approaches, sullen more than usual in his dampened coat.

“You sure about this, Jimmy?” he asks for the third time in twenty minutes. “The whole department is gonna get major heat for this. I mean, I got your back, you know, but the other guys, they’re not gonna like I.A. sniffing around their desks Monday morning. And what about the Arkham van, huh?”

“I have men on the Arkham slip, men I trust. If you’d rather be out rounding up lunatics, then be my guest. Look, I get it, Harv. I’m not entirely comfortable with all this myself.” Replies the Commissioner. “But he gave me his word, this ends tonight. I gotta give him the chance.”

“Jimmy, he’s a wanted murderer.” Bullock waves his toothpick.

“I know all this, goddamnit. But if there’s two Batmen out there tonight, at least one of them will be taken in, I promise you that.”

“Gordon” a low, disguised grunt startles the pair at their rear. The detectives turn to the sound of guns cocking and aiming in the direction of the Bat, standing freely behind them.

“Hey, hey, hey! Nobody do a damn thing without my word, you hear?!” Gordon calls to his wary collection of officers. “I don’t want any spooks or heroes here! Anybody fires, I’ll have your damn badges by midnight, now guns down!” the officers comply and step back from their circle around the wanted vigilante.

“Jim...”

“Listen, you tell me there’s another one of you out there doing all these things and I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” Gordon starts. “Then you tell me the man we’re after is Vincent Chill and I’m even less convinced. But I want this damn thing over with, one way or another. So when you told me I gotta lock off the blocks so you two can decide who gets to keep the cape and who spends the night in jail, I was hesitant at best. But you owe me as much as I’ve ever owed you. So, I need your word that this is all over, tonight. I need you to deliver me Chill.”

“This will end, you have my word on that.” The Bat grumbles in reply.

“And Chill? I don’t care what it is between you two, but I want him. I want him in one piece, so I can hear the words from his own lips.”

“You’ll have Chill.” He extends his gloved hand.

“Save it for the bust snap. You have one hour, then we move in. Any Batman on sight at that point will be taken in.”  

The Bat nods in agreement and swings away at the firing of his grapnel claw.

Bullock steps toward Gordon. “Jimmy, this is messed up. You see what you’re doing here? Hedging your bets with one criminal against another. There’ll be blood on your hands, Jimmy-boy.”