#1: Lustmord, Pt 2 (Charlton / DrDread)

The neighborhood was one of Gotham’s oldest and had once been quite swank: cobblestone streets, gas lamps that were wired for electricity, and stately brownstones that sat amongst well-appointed courtyards and gardens. But the years had not been kind, and economic depression and the steady increase of seedy activity had driven away respectable folk. Now the cobblestones were cracked, the gas lamps burnt out, the courtyards and gardens overgrown with weeds, and the brownstones converted to low-income housing--- those that weren’t abandoned or condemned.

It wasn’t that the Bowery was deserted; on the contrary, it was teeming with life. The criminals ruled the lanes and avenues where once the city’s glitterati cavorted. Gangs and drug traffickers, prostitutes and bad cops… These were the denizens of the Bowery that caused the more honest people to cower behind double-bolted doors at night.

A low fog had set in, carpeting the dirty streets in an ominous white shroud. It was so thick that it muffled the sound of his footsteps on the broken cobblestones. He was cloaked in a long dark coat, wore a bowler hat and carried an old-fashioned leather satchel like the kind doctors took on house calls. He did not rush, but walked with a single-minded purpose.

Clutched in his hands tightly was a serrated blade that was still dripping a trail of blood…

The man ran as fast as he could down the garbage-strewn street, his heart pumping faster than his legs. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed nothing: an empty sky, the full moon covered by clouds.

He knew he hadn’t imagined it, the fluttering of dark wings, the raspy voice calling his name… The Bat was abroad in the Bowery tonight, and he was after Mickey! And one did not escape the Bat so easily.

Mickey O’Malley ducked into a side street to catch his breath, sure that he had eluded the Bat for the time being. He even allowed himself a smug smile…

“Mickey…”

The snitch nearly jumped out of his shoes. White eyeslits blazed behind him from the darkness of the alley and the Batman stepped out of the shadows!

Mickey bolted, but did not get far. A batarang cable shot out and entwined him, and he was yanked unceremoniously back into the deserted side street.

He was enveloped in darkness, and pulled close to the cowled face of the Dark Knight, so close that he felt Batman’s misting breath on his own face!

“I’m only going to ask this once, O’Malley. You see everything that goes on in the Bowery. Another girl was killed tonight. Where is the Ripper?”

The snitch struggled for breath: Batman held him too tightly by the front of the shirt, bearing down menacingly upon him.

“Dunno no Ripper, I swear. He ain’t from around here.” He stammered, the white eyeslits boring into him. His teeth rattled as Batman shook him, as if to dislodge any loose information. “I mean, I seen him a coupla times, outta the corner of my eye, but I ain’t never got a good lookit ‘em.”

“Have you seen him tonight?”

A nod.

“Where?”

“Down by St. John’s Court! About ten minutes ago!”

Abruptly Mickey was released, dropped heavily to the ground. There was the whip and snap of cloth and leather and the Bat was gone.

“He’s playing games with us.” Batman told Detective Lieutenant Gordon that night as the last of the battered thugs were marched into the police wagon. “Each one of them admits that they were paid by a man to prowl the Bowery tonight, trying to get my attention.”

Gordon blew out a stream of smoke and chuckled humorlessly.

“Not the best career move they could have made ...” He commented wryly. “At least you made it too hot for him to follow through with his threat to kill two girls tonight.”

Gordon saw Batman’s jaw clench, before the Dark Knight turned and disappeared into the shadows, calling bitterly over his shoulder: “Tell that to the first girl.”

His cowl thrown back, Bruce Wayne sat in front of the bank of monitor screens, rubbing his bleary eyes, and browsed through various databases at the same time. He had not been to bed yet, but the constant stream of caffeine with which Alfred supplied him kept him alert.

The Scotland Yard files were not difficult for his encryption programs, and he poured over the notes from inspectors dead for over a century. Whoever the Gotham Ripper was, he certainly did his homework. Bruce searched intently for some clue to the copycat’s game, but the only lead thus far was a single divergence: the word lustmord, drawn in blood on the wall of a Gotham alley.

Was it a coincidence that the world’s foremost researcher on the concept appeared in Gotham at the same time as the Ripper?

Idly sipping his coffee, Bruce continued to scan the digitized files, clicking past page after page--- until something caught his attention. A name jumped out, a suspect noted by the lead investigator of the Whitechapel Murders. He stared at it a moment, wracking his brain to remember where he had heard the name before. Then he remembered.

Arkham.

“This is outrageous!” Professor Hugo Strange declared, attempting to interpose his body between the police and his frightened patient. “Montagu is a very sick man, but he is no murderer! He is under my care, and I can absolutely vouch for his presence here at Arkham, under lock and key. He has had no opportunity to commit the crimes you accuse him of, Lieutenant Gordon!”

“Then you won’t mind if we just ask him a few questions, Dr. Strange.” Gordon crossed his arms over his chest, as the hospital orderlies went around them to restrain the prisoner. “If he’s innocent, no harm done.”

“Fool!” Hissed Strange. “You will undo all of the progress I have made with him. His is a very fragile psyche, an interrogation could---.”

Gordon shoved the doctor out of the room and closed the door between them.


Fuming, Strange entered his own office, slamming the door behind him. He instantly registered the curtains blowing through the open window, and spun to see a figure looming over him out of the shadows behind the door.

He raised his hands to ward off a blow, but none was forthcoming. He staggered backward against his desk as Batman stepped forward.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Professor Strange.” Came the low, whispery voice. “I just want to talk…”

“Batman!” Strange exclaimed in a mixture of wonder and fear. “At last! I’ve have wanted to meet you since before I came to Gotham. I have read so much about you. Your obsessions and neuroses are fascin---.”

“I don’t want to talk about me.” Batman cut him off. “Tell me about Druitt.”

The psychiatrist blinked and cleared his throat, but seemed non-plussed.

“Montagu is a child molester and a self-mutilator. He was the victim of molestation himself and abandoned at a young age by both parents. He was raised in foster care, and began to---.”

“Is Montagu John Druitt his real name?”

“Yes, as far as I know. Why?”

“What is his obsession with Jack the Ripper?”

Strange shook his head and shrugged.

“I had no idea he had one.”

Batman took a step closer. “Pretty big miss, doctor.”

“What makes you think he has one?” Strange shot back.

“Montagu John Druitt is the name of a man suspected of the Whitechapel Murders. He drowned himself and the murders stopped. And now that we have a copycat Ripper in Gotham, is it a coincidence that a man by the same name is in residence here?”

“Perhaps.” Strange conceded, scratching his beard. But Montagu’s never murdered anyone; he’s in here for sexual assault on a minor. He cuts himself and faints dead away at the sight of the blood.”

“What about his voices?” Batman pressed. “Could this be some kind of latent psychosis…?”

Strange gave him a sharp look, and the memory of yesterday came back to Batman, of Bruce Wayne overhearing the end of Druitt’s session with Strange. Urgency and lack of sleep had caused him to make a mistake; he could only hope that Strange would not put it together.

“Have you spoken to Montagu already, Batman?” Strange asked, eyebrows quirked.

“I read your file.” The Dark Knight glanced at the filing cabinet in the corner, the tone in his voice daring the psychiatrist to take offense. “If Druitt did these things, Professor, he isn’t acting alone. Somehow, he is able to come and go from Arkham undetected. He has an accomplice…” He fixed the psychiatrist with a heavy, steady stare.

“You don’t honestly mean to suggest---.”

A commotion outside interrupted Strange’s indignation. The door to his office opened and Detective Gordon stuck his head in.

“You may want to call a lawyer for your client, Doc. We’ve got blood under his fingernails and some personal effects of the victims in his cell. We’re taking him downtown.”

Before Strange could respond, Gordon was gone. The psychiatrist turned back to Batman, but saw that there was now no sign of the Dark Knight, other than a swish of the window curtains.

Vicki crossed one long, perfect leg over the other, tugging her on skirt modestly, though it did not even reach her knee, not unaware of the effect it had on Strange as he sat across from her at his desk, loosening his collar. She bit her bottom lip coquettishly, and tapped her pencil on her notepad, wondering aloud: “But Professor, what makes a man like Vadim Koslovsky become a monster like Montagu John Druitt? Is it purely a matter of imitation? Was he so taken with the mystery and horror of Jack the Ripper that one day he just determined to emulate him?”

Strange arranged his large round spectacles, smiling smoothly, as he answered.
“Sometimes, Ms. Vale, it is a mistake to look for reason in the mind of a lunatic. It is what I have always found so fascinating about the truly insane--- a species distinct from the merely deranged, as the majority of this fine institution clearly are!--- they are capable of any act, no matter how sublime or how depraved. I now believe poor Mr. Druitt to be such a specimen. Who but a being detached from normal societal mores could commit the atrocities he is accused of?”

“But detachment from societal mores does not necessarily lead to homicidal rampage.” Vale pressed, leaning forward, exposing her cleavage, much to the professor’s delight. “By all accounts, there must be some sort of predisposition, a psychotic break…?”

Strange allowed his eyes to wander appreciatively.

“You would impose your own quite sane values on a mind not suited for them.” He reached for the decanter of brandy on his desk, and poured two snifters worth, passing one to her. She accepted it with a flirty smile and sipped.

“Let us take the Batman for instance.” He stirred the liquid about in his glass, watching her drink. “Here is a grown man who haunts the night, dressing up in tights and a cape, swinging from rooftops looking for trouble.”

“You’re comparing Batman to Druitt?” Vale asked incredulously, the brandy blazing a warm trail down her throat.

“Not exactly.” Strange smiled benignly. “I am merely making a point about how a mind can significantly depart from societal norms. You see, even before I came to Gotham, I had made a study of the Batman. He must be a man of certain financial independence, to allow for his extravagant equipment--- or at least be backed by such a man. He must have experienced a profound trauma that causes him to hurl himself into the shadows night after night. It is elementary research, really, to make certain correlations after such presuppositions…”

He had risen from his chair, and walked around the desk, settling behind Vale, his hand falling suggestively to her soft shoulder. She couldn’t be sure of it was the curiously strong brandy, the professor’s unexpected touch, or his words that were making her head spin.

“Are you saying you’ve deduced the identity of Batman?” She shrugged off his hand, and twisted in her seat to stare up at him.

“Oh, yes, I know exactly who Batman is.” The professor smiled. He caressed her cheek. “Why don’t we discus it in more intimate quarters?”

“I’m flattered, Svengali, but no thanks.”

She slapped his hand away, preparing an angrier retort, but found that, even as she rose, the brandy had taken a quick and more profound toll on her senses. She swayed, stumbling back into her chair, surprised to find the glass in her hand all but empty. Had she drained the whole thing so quickly…?

“We’ll see.” She heard the professor say, as if from a great distance. Her head swam in anise-flavored fog, and he deftly retrieved the snifter from her before it fell from her nerveless fingers. “Absinthe, as they say,” He smiled toothily down at her as he drew a gleaming straight razor from an old fashioned leather satchel on a nearby table. “Makes the heart grow fonder…”