Do Unto Others...

Chapter 10: HOME

Residence of Peter Placido, June 30th, 11:21 p.m.

"No one home."

I stood beside Batgirl, enclosed in the darkness of a cluster of oaks. My binoculars were trained on the small, plain house across the street. It was modest but well-kept and framed by a tended lawn and garden. No lights were on inside and there was no car in the drive nor in the garage. Batgirl had been watching the house since eleven in the morning, sitting in the leafy branches for over twelve hours, waiting for me to arrive.

Or preferably, Placido.

When darkness had fallen earlier that evening, I had asked Batgirl to take prints off of the knob on the front door. They were easy matches to those Robin had found in the impounded Jeep, erasing any remaining uncertainty that he was our prime suspect. In conjunction with the fact that he had gone unseen and unaccounted for approaching two days, I had started to wonder if he had fled, feeling the pressure of his last act.

Or if it was his pattern, disappearing so that he could be on the prowl…

"Stay here?" Batgirl asked suddenly. her voice barely above a whisper.

"Did you install the motion sensors? Cameras?"

She nodded, "All doors, house and garage."

"Good… you can leave. I'll take a closer look."

Her form straightened, stiffening slightly before she stepped out of the cover of the trees, dashing down the street to where she had secured her cycle. Given her upbringing, she had never learned to accept defeat, even in her brief time working at my side. She would have been more than willing to sit for another twelve hours, waiting for our suspect to make an appearance. An admirable trait, but one I felt guilty abusing.

Moments later, I heard her start the cycle and speed off, returning to Gotham to put her abilities to use in a more active sense. I replaced my binoculars to their compartment on the utility belt before glancing up and down the street. The neighborhood itself was fairly quiet, most of its inhabitants tucked in for the night, resting up for a commute into the city and a long day of work. When I was certain that there were no approaching vehicles or prying eyes, I crossed quickly and headed for the garage.

The door opened manually and I lifted it just three feet off of the ground before slipping inside and closing it behind me. After a pause, I retrieved a flashlight and scanned the area. As expected, it was neat and tidy, shelving along two of the three walls, most bearing plastic storage totes, typical gardening equipment and hand tools.

On the third wall, the one sharing with the house, I found a small, practically empty refrigerator, a lawn mower that had seen better days and a smaller set of shelves full of car supplies neatly organized. He changed his own oil filters from the looks of his inventory, of which had kept him off of the radar when Barbara had looked for extraneous service patterns. The cement floor was meticulously swept and clear of even the slightest oil stain.

The neatness of the scenes was suddenly evident that it had been an extension of his home keeping habits.

The door that connected the house to the garage was locked, but took minimal manipulation to open soundlessly. No deadbolt but then again it was a nice neighborhood and he was obviously capable of taking care of himself. I walked down a narrow hall, carpeted in beige, acted as the entrance. To the left, I spotted a tidy laundry room complete with an empty washer and dryer and an ironing board ready for duty. As I traveled down the corridor, I noticed that there were no photographs or paintings on the walls. No sign of any effort to make the house a home.

A den was placed at the end of the hall, modestly furnished with a television, recliner and small sofa and clean but chipped coffee table. In the far corner, I spotted an old desk, its surface bare except for a ceramic jar of pens and a framed photograph. Moving closer, I looked to see it was of a young woman, giving a small smile to the photographer. I recognized the image instantly as that of Placido's mother. The drawers were in order and had little in them. Receipts, a bank book ledger that put his checking account balance at just shy if one-thousand and sixty five dollars with a savings at not much more than that,