Issue 5 of 8

9:15 a.m.

Dick leaned forward. “Are you sure?”

Barbara scanned the data on the screen before her. “Very low blood sugar level, abnormally high insulin level… and, here’s the clincher: they found a syringe in his jacket pocket. The lab reports confirm it contained traces of insulin. What I can’t figure out is, assuming Alfred wasn’t diabetic… if you’re going to kill somebody… why use insulin?

Dick considered that. “It works fast,” he said thoughtfully. “If it was injected into a muscle, death occurs in about twenty to thirty minutes. IV would’ve been even faster. And the symptoms… Babs, hypothetically… you come onto the scene. You see someone who’s broken out in a sweat. His face is flushed. He seems…” he paused, trying to remember the forensic texts Bruce had forced him to study, years ago, “disoriented, weak, sleepy… maybe he’s already comatose. Babs, do you have any idea how many different drugs… or medical conditions for that matter, mimic those symptoms? Even if you suspect something’s off with the blood sugar, what’s the likelihood you’ll realize you’re looking at an insulin OD? Especially when you know the subject isn’t diabetic, and had no reason to be taking the stuff.”

Barbara nodded. “Makes sense. Also…insulin’s legal. It’s relatively easy to obtain. I mean, for all we know, one of Black Mask’s enforcers might have a prescription for the stuff.” Her eyes widened. “Dick? You do know what this means if the information’s accurate, right?”

Dick nodded slowly. “It means that Alfred was already dying or dead when Bruce got there. It means he wasn’t killed during the rescue attempt. It means Black Mask murdered him.” He gripped the edge of the desk as he leaned over Barbara’s shoulder to peer at the screen. She covered his hand with her own as she hit the page-down button. A little too quickly. Dick’s eyes narrowed. “What didn’t you want me to see?” He demanded.

“What?”

“Babs, don’t play games with me. There’s something in that report you’re keeping from me. Isn’t there?” He slid his hand free of hers and slapped it down on the table. “What are you hiding?”

She didn’t answer. She held herself ramrod straight, jaw locked, eyes fixed straight ahead. She seemed to be on the verge of tears.

Way to go, Grayson. He thought, miserably, as his anger vanished. You spent a few months in a cesspool and it looks like you still haven’t washed all the stink away. He shook his head. If nothing else, his time with the mob had proven to him that, although he had fallen from the ideals that Bruce had drummed into him from Day One, he still hadn’t sunk as low as he had believed he had when Amy had kicked him out of holding. Even so, those days had left their mark on him. He was more volatile, now. More prone to anger. Get it under control, or save it for the suit, he ordered himself.

“Sorry, Babs,” he said, immediately contrite. “That was…” he broke off. “…Sorry.”

Tight-lipped, Barbara scrolled back to the previous screen. “We know,” she said in a brittle voice, “how Black Mask gets his jollies, but--“ She broke off at Dick’s gasp.

“There is no way,” Dick whispered, “that Alfred got those kinds of injuries from the explosion or from the fall. Based on this…”

“I know,” Barbara forced out the words. “Black Mask tortured him, starved him, and shot him full of insulin. Even if Batman had gotten there a few minutes earlier, I don’t think it would have made a difference. By the time he could have figured out what was wrong with Alfred…”

“It would have been too late,” Dick finished grimly. His expression hardened. “Bruce has got to be tearing himself apart over this… going over every move… thinking if he’d jumped a second sooner… snagged a different anchor point with the decel grapple… found another exit… and Alfred was already gone!” He slammed his fist into the table, sending the computer mouse, pad and all, sliding into Barbara’s lap. “I hope I don’t find him, right now. I hope to G-d I don’t find Sionis when I’m like this. Because if I do… I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to hold back.”

Barbara gripped his wrist fiercely. “You’re going to have to,” she replied. “Because I honestly don’t know if I’m going to want to talk you down.”

That checked him. He drew a deep breath. “Babs. I-I really am sorry I lost it, just now. There’s absolutely no excuse…”

Barbara smiled shakily. “Look… you’re stressed, you’ve been through a lot, lately…”

He shook his head. “It still doesn’t justify…”

“No. It doesn’t,” Barbara admitted. “Pull something like this again and you can check into a hotel. But, for now… you’d better hustle. You’re meeting with Lucius Fox in a little over a half-hour.”

He nodded. That appointment had completely slipped his mind, when he’d gone to meet with Akins. Bruce’s situation impacted more than the select group of people he thought of as family. Once the secret became public knowledge, Wayne Enterprises was likely to suffer from the fallout. So, rather than wait for the other shoe to drop, Dick was going to take steps, now, to contain the situation.

“We’ll talk later, Babs,” he said.

11:30 a.m.

“I hope you’re alright,” Barbara’s ‘Oracle voder’ said over the intercom, “with setting this up in one of the satellite caves. With Dad staying under the same roof with me, I don’t want the neighbours recognizing either of you, and wondering why you’d be coming to call.”

The goateed young man lounging against the rough cement wall grinned impishly at her holographic image. “Fess up, Cyberbabe,” he retorted, “you’re just afraid of what might happen if you and me are sitting together in the same room.”

“That must be it, Harper,” she deadpanned. “If I were to break my escrima over your skull, I don’t know how I’d ever be able to face Dinah again.”

“Ahhhh… don’t sweat it,” the blonde woman seated on the leather hassock grinned. “It’s not like you’d damage anything vital.”

“Hey!” Roy shouted, as Barbara responded--

“Weren’t you just paying attention? I’d have wrecked the escrima!”

The two women giggled. Dick hadn’t known the synthetic voice could giggle. It sounded mildly disturbing. The mirth broke off abruptly, and the simulacrum dropped away. Barbara’s green eyes were deadly serious.
“I’ve just gotten confirmation, Dick,” Barbara said. “In two hours time, Akins will be making the announcement.”
At her words, all traces of levity vanished from the three faces in the room. “It’s really happening.” Roy stated. “It just feels like…”

“A bad dream?” Dick asked. “Trust me, nobody wants to wake up more than I do. Meanwhile, if Akins is speaking in two hours, I’ll be giving a speech of my own about an hour or so after that. Before the markets open tomorrow morning, I want the public to know that WE isn’t ripe for a corporate takeover bid. Plus, it may cut into Akins’ spotlight if the press is rushing across town to hear my side of it.”

“And that’s where you two come in,” Barbara stated.

“Much as I’d like to read off a prepared statement and walk away,” Dick continued, “we all know the reporters are going to have questions. I don’t want to get caught off guard.”

Dinah nodded. “And you wanted us here because--“

“Because if you’re looking for people to shoot off their mouths and ask totally inappropriate questions,” Barbara began…

“On a top ten list of qualified individuals, Roy and I are probably at least three of them.”

Roy grinned, and rubbed his fingers together, gleefully. “Alright, Robbie. Lets take it from: you’ve just read the best speech the WE spin doctors could put together on such short notice. The reporters have been listening, but waiting for you to finish what you have to say, so they can ask…”

“Were you the original Robin?” Dinah called out.

“Ye-“

“Are you currently Nightwing?” Roy interrupted.

“No com--“

“Is Wayne really crazy?”

“No!”

“Is it true that Akins has banned you from appearing in costume?”

“No comment.”

“How competent do you consider the GCPD?”

“Extremely.”

“Then, why do you feel they need your help to get the job done?”

“Um…”

“Who’s better in the sack, Batgirl or Starfire?”

“Roy!” Dick’s squawk of protest was drowned out by Dinah’s snort.

“Dick… he wasn’t one of the options!”

Strange wheezing sounds were emanating from the monitor. The simulacrum was back up, and it sounded like it was hyperventilating.

“Oracle, you okay?” Dinah asked, sobering.

“Just peachy, thanks,” came the synthetic response. “Keep going.”

With an evil smirk, Roy shoved a crossbow quarrel into Dick’s face as though it was a microphone. “How many of the Titans have you slept with?”

“Quit it,” Dick snarled.

“Have you seen your father?” Dinah broke in, ignoring the angry look Roy shot at her.

“Not yet.”

“What was it like growing up at Wayne Manor?” Roy demanded.

Dinah sidled up until she stood a scant eight inches away. “Is it true that you were fired from the most corrupt police department on the Eastern Seaboard?”

“Well, technically, but…”

“Did Wayne have a lot of girlfriends over when you were a child?”

“What was your connection with the sultry, yet venomous Tarantula?”

Dick felt his face grow hot. “NO COMMENT!”

Roy continued as though the other two had not spoken. “…Or were the floozies just for show? What was your real relationship with Way--“

Before Roy could complete the question, a fist slammed into his jaw, propelling him several feet backward. Dick’s second punch connected with his nose. Roy staggered, struggling to maintain his balance. He lost that battle, but managed to recover enough to fall properly to the ground, letting go of the quarrel as he did. His lip was bleeding, he realized, as he felt something trickle down toward his chin.

Dick advanced. “I. Said,” he growled menacingly, “Quit it!”

Roy rose shakily to his feet, shrugging off Dinah’s attempt to help him. “Look, Batboy,” he snarled, “if you can’t take hearing it from me, how’re you gonna take it from the press?” He gripped both of Dick’s shoulders. “Listen. When you go out there, they will ask you everything and anything they can. They will badger. They will hound. They will question you in ways that would impress any court lawyer. Except in court, you or your lawyer gets to call ‘Objection,’ if the questioning gets out of line. Some of those reporters are probably going to try to get a rise out of you because they hope you’ll take a swing at them. But, Robbie, you do not let them provoke you. Whatever they say, no matter how stupid…”

“Dick,” Barbara said quietly, “Roy has a point, this time. I know you’re angry, but you have got to keep it in check. For Bruce’s sake, as much as for yours.”

Dick nodded slowly. “I can’t help him from a holding cell.”

“Not just that,” Dinah replied. “What happens if they try to say that you wouldn’t have assaulted the reporter if Bruce hadn’t taught you to use violence to solve your problems?”

“But he didn’t!” Dick protested automatically. “It was the exact opposite. He always used to say…”

We’re not brutalizers. We’ve got to think with our heads, not our fists.

“…Not our fists,” Dick repeated. “Not our fists.” He spun abruptly toward the far wall. “I… betrayed that before,” he admitted softly. “I let something happen… something I shouldn’t have… and I couldn’t face telling Bruce.”

Roy opened his mouth to say something. Dinah held her finger to her lips in a shushing motion.

“So, I ran away,” Dick continued flatly. “I tried to do the right thing and turn myself in to police. My captain decided retroactively that I’d been undercover and working with BPD sanction. She turned me out and told me I’d do more good outside Lockhaven than inside it.”

“Sentenced to community service,” Roy drawled. “Just what normally happens to privileged rich celebs and their kids in a corrupt society.”

Dick blinked. “I… didn’t think of it that way,” he replied. “I… don’t think I was thinking at all. I hated myself. I hated what I’d done… what I’d become… that Amy wouldn’t even let me do the ‘right’ thing.” He considered. “Maybe I… does it make sense that I decided to do the ‘wrongest’ thing I could, instead?” Did it? He couldn’t be sure. But it was as good a theory as any as to why he had sought out the ‘Jersey mob.

With a quick glance at the monitor, Dinah walked up to Dick and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Helena mentioned you crashing her apartment, that time,” she said. “She was worried about you.”

“She was right to be,” Dick admitted. “There were a couple of months when I kidded myself that things were looking up. I mean, if you ignore the fact that I was slowly gaining the acceptance of a low-level Mafia family, and putting my fighting talents to good use as a bodyguard.”

“And?” Barbara asked hesitantly. Her voice was carefully neutral.

“And,” Dick said quietly, “it wasn’t me. If I was as…bad as I believed, I should’ve fit right in with the rest of the mob enforcers. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I left them. Tried a worse lot to hook up with. I… made overtures to Slade. Convinced him I’d switched allegiances. Wasn’t that hard.” He laughed. “I’d managed to convince myself, after all. In some ways,” he admitted, “I was so damn good at working for the other side, it was scary. But…it hit me suddenly… if I’d really fallen as fast and far as I believed, then whydid I hate every minute of what I was doing?”

Roy laid his hand on Dick’s other shoulder. “Because, Batboy,” he said, “you were always too smart to get taken in by an idea that stupid. Hell, you fought off Brother Blood’s programming. Is it that crazy that you’d resist the insanity you were trying to brainwash yourself into believing?”

Dick gaped at him.

“Dick, you screwed up. Fine.”

“I let Blockbuster die!”

“Yeah? Well maybe your captain can give you a medal of honour when this whole thing blows over. As I was saying, you messed up. That doesn’t mean that you are a mess-up.” He squeezed briefly on Dick’s shoulder. “You didn’t give up on me when I was fighting not to go back on heroin. You didn’t give up on Raven when Trigon was in her driver’s seat. You are not giving up on yourself. End of discussion.”

Dick nodded slightly as he processed Roy’s words. “Thanks, Bowhead,” he said. “Babs? You heard all that?”
“Months ago,” Barbara’s voice replied. “I started checking things out right about the time Desmond’s pet spider tried to kill me.”

“Not just you, Babs. Rollie was after everyone and anyone else I’d ever had any sort of contact with,” Dick remembered. “He told me that for the rest of my life, I’d never even be able to shake hands with a person without targeting them.”

“Ah,” Barbara breathed. “That’s about the one piece of the puzzle I didn’t have.”

Dick blinked. He turned around slowly to face her. “And… if you know,” he said disbelievingly, “you still want… I mean…” He stretched his hand out toward the screen.

The simulacrum was down again. Barbara’s hand reached back to him. “Remember what I said to you when you were going through the same sort of guilt trip after you choked Joker?”

Dick swallowed. “That the world would be a better place without Joker in it.” He knew what she was getting at, but…

“Ditto for Blockbuster.”

“Babs, we don’t get to pick and choose who deserves to live or die!”

“No. We don’t. That was one of the first things I learned from Bruce. Probably one of the first things you learned from him, too. But get this: I own a rifle. Never fired it outside a target range, but during No Man’s Land, I came close. Black Mask’s gang was storming the ‘Tower. I didn’t exactly want to broadcast the fact that I still had enough technology to hold them off. The gun was in my hands. I had one of them in my sights. And I was about a second away from pulling that trigger.”

Dick gaped at her. “What stopped you?”

Barbara grimaced. “In the middle of the fight, Helena turned up in a Bat-suit. And Bruce didn’t.

“Now,” she continued, “I’m about to give you a hypothetical. I want you to tell me what you would do… as a police officer. Hostage situation. You know that the hostage-taker is threatening to execute a captive every hour. You know he’s willing and able to carry out his threat. You also have the means of bringing him down and ending the danger… but it involves lethal force. Your choice. Take him down, or watch him take down all the innocents. What’s your call?”

“That’s different! I wasn’t a cop at the time. And there’s always another way!”

“What if there wasn’t?”

“Babs…”

“What if I’m one of the hostages? Because, Dick, if what you’re telling me is the truth, then, for all intents and purposes, I was! What’s your call? One or more deaths are about to occur due to your action or inaction. You get to pick the target. Is it the guy who’s threatening the hostages? Or is it one hostage every hour?”

“You can’t ask--“

“Yes, I can! Do you shoot, or do you watch?”

“Babs!”

“Shoot. Or. WATCH?”

Time seemed to stand still. “…Shoot,” Dick said finally. “Shoot. Or allow your partner to, if you can’t. But shoot.”

He sank to the ground, feeling drained, and yet, oddly calm. For a few moments, nobody said a word. Then Dinah sighed.

“I hate to get back to business,” she said, “but I think we need to see if you can get through the questions, this time, without punching Roy, Dick.”

Dick nodded and rose, shakily to his feet.

“If you’re up to it, Former Boy Wonder.”

Roy punched his bicep lightly. “Sure he is,” he said glibly. “Right, Robbo?”

Dick forced a smile. But it was less forced than it might have been a few minutes ago. “Yeah,” he responded. “What he said.”

2:07 p.m.

Romy stalked down the hospital corridors, paying no attention to her route. She might have done a full circuit of the floor a dozen times and been none the wiser. Finally, she calmed down enough to take in her surroundings. The metal plates affixed to the walls, next to the doorways bore room numbers prefaced by the letter “G”. Wayne was in room C-812. How far away was that? This wing appeared to be mainly doctor’s offices. Slowly, she advanced, keeping an eye out for signs to direct her back toward “C-wing.”

As she turned a corner, she discovered a small solarium. It was empty, but the furnishings looked comfortable. She was about to pass by, when she noted a coffee machine tucked away in a small kitchenette off of the larger room. Maybe that would help, she thought, going in.

A few moments later, she was raising a steaming styrofoam cup to her lips. Her hands, she realized with annoyance, were shaking.

“Ma’am? I don’t mean to intrude,” said a warm baritone, “but are you alright?”

Romy looked up. The man, who stood in the doorway with a concerned expression on his face, appeared to be in his middle thirties, with carefully cropped reddish hair. The white coat, caduceus pin, and stethoscope marked him for a doctor. She opened her mouth to tell him that she was fine, she only wanted some privacy, then changed her mind.

“I will be,” she said, gulping the coffee. She tried not to wince as the hot liquid scalded her tongue.

The man sat down across from her. “Elliot Hardy,” he introduced himself.

“Romy Chandler.”

“Well, Ms. Chandler,” he began, “I suppose you already know that too much caffeine is only going to make you more keyed up.”

Romy took another sip. “It’s Detective Chandler, actually,” she corrected without malice. “And right now, I need to be keyed up. I...” she hesitated. Why in the world was she spilling her life-story to a total stranger? But… wasn’t that better? She’d probably never see him again. She didn’t have to worry about what he would think of her. And she needed to vent.

She started telling him about what she had gone through when Nate had died. Ironic, really. She’d barely tolerated the man’s attitude while he was alive. Dead, she’d created a saint of him. Romy had had nightmares about the explosion for months afterwards, nightmares that had intensified once Nate’s parents took him off life-support. Less than a month later, the mob war had erupted. And, in the space of three days, scores of officers had been wounded--twenty-eight fatally. One of them had been her mentor at the academy. This time, her shift commander had insisted she get counselling. This time, she was taking sedatives to help her sleep. But, in order to function and remain alert during her shift, she was ‘counter-medicating’ with frequent coffee injections. She had become more impulsive, quicker to anger. It was starting to affect her job performance. She suspected that her new partner, Takahata, was covering for her… but she wondered for how long.

“A few nights ago,” she continued, “we busted a major drug ring. And when we were itemizing the evidence, I… I was toying with the idea of holding on to a couple of the bottles. I mean… people who know me know that a year ago, I would never have contemplated something like that. But, it wasn’t a fleeting thought. I was actually planning it. What happens if next time…”

Hardy nodded sympathetically. “Are you still seeing that counsellor?”

“Yeah,” Chandler sighed. “I have another three sessions covered under my health plan.” She smiled ruefully. “Guess

I should ask about tapering off the sedatives, or something, hunh?”

The handsome doctor (damn, if she weren’t already seeing Marcus, what a catch this guy would make!) grinned back. “If you’re taking meds to sleep well so you can perform, and the substance you’re taking harms your performance, somebody needs to re-evaluate.” His expression turned serious. “As far as… um… liberating evidence goes, ethics aside, if you don’t know what you’re doing, you really don’t want to go that route. A lot of what’s sold on the streets might be perfectly legal with a prescription, but if you don’t know the dosage…” he thought for a moment. “Let me give you a hypothetical. A normal dose of… let’s use Desoxyn as an example; a normal dose of Desoxyn would be about twenty…maybe twenty-five milligrams. It varies according to the usual factors: weight, age, sensitivities… but that’s probably average. It’s a stimulant, so a normal course of treatment could leave you right back at square one as far as the insomnia is concerned. However, if the dosage is too high, it can also cause paranoia, hallucinations, panic states, assaultiveness… it’s not a good area for experimentation. That’s not to say it can’t help you, but it’s really something you need to discuss with someone who has your medical history in front of them.”

He smiled self-consciously at her glazed-eye stare. “I didn’t mean to lecture you, Detective Chandler. Fact is, I happened to be a presenter recently at a symposium on the long-term effects of methamphetamines and dexmethylphenidates on… um… psychiatric outpatients, so you kind of hit my area of expertise.” At her raised eyebrow, he hastily added: “not that I’m lumping you in that category, of course!”

Romy laughed. “Of course.” She narrowed her eyes. “Dexametha-whats?”

“Stimulants.”

4:00 p.m.

The prepared statement was supposed be the easy part. He had scant emotional investment in the company, and it wasn’t as if he or Bruce were truly going to lose their holdings in WE…or as if Bruce’s purse would feel the pinch, even if they did. So Dick kept telling himself, repeatedly. But, standing in the foyer of Wayne Enterprises, paper in hand, and five minutes to show-time, his heart was thudding in his chest, and his palms were sweating.
Lucius was at the security desk phone, responding to a page.

Dick glanced briefly out the window. About twenty men and women, armed with microphones, cameras, and camcorders were clustered at the base of the stairs. Further off, he could see a straggler or two walking up hurriedly. He looked behind him, at the elevator on the far left--the one Lucius had set on service mode. It would remain on the ground floor until he, or Lucius, swiped their electronic key-cards against the scanner. When the conference was over, Dick would not have to wade through the crowd to exit the conference. He would go up to the executive floor, wait a half-hour or so, and leave through a side door. Barbara would drive by to pick him up, as Dick didn’t want to take a chance that a reporter might have come ahead of time, to catch him pulling up to the building, and to accost him on his way out.

Lucius put down the telephone. “It’s just been confirmed. The local stations are going to be showing this live.”

Seeing Dick’s eyes widen, he continued. “I can still do this, if you’ve changed your mind.”

Dick shook his head. “They’re expecting me.”

“A few years back,” Lucius recalled, “I went to Brazil to visit one of our subsidiaries. I took a boat trip down the Amazon. The captain informed me that the river was home to schools of piranha. To demonstrate, one of the sailors dumped a pail of table scraps over the side.”

Dick let out a low whistle. “That would have set off a…”

“Feeding frenzy,” Lucius nodded sagely. “Like you’re about to. Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Even if I’m not, Mr. Fox,” Dick replied, “‘capes’ like me are supposed to jump overboard and fight the piranhas so the rest of the passengers and crew can get to safety.”

Lucius looked sceptical.

“Really.” Dick deadpanned. “It’s in the official JLA handbook… somewhere.” He blinked. Somewhere in the middle of that conversation, his pulse had steadied. A strange calm settled on him. No… it wasn’t strange… it was the same feeling he’d had as a child, right before the trapeze act started. It was a shifting of focus, from fear to excitement. From the dread of falling to the anticipation of flight. And, suddenly, Dick knew. He knew that he could do this.

Lucius nodded to the security guard at the door. He said, “let them in, Nacio,” but Dick heard, “Laydeeeees ahhnnnd gent-telMEN! If I may direct your attention to the centre ring…” Dick drew a deep breath, and advanced to the near-centre of the foyer, the tips of his shoes just brushing the top of the black W-E inset in the green marble floor. He exhaled, drew another breath, and began to speak.

The questions, when he finished the prepared statement, came thick and fast. Most, Roy and Dinah had anticipated. Yes, he did think that the GCPD employed some of the finest men and women in the country.

“Then, why are costumed vigilantes necessary?”

“You know, right up to the point when the Titanic struck the iceberg, every lifeboat on board the vessel was a useless waste of space. After it hit, suddenly there weren’t enough of them. In a lot of cases, the GCPD can, and does, manage just fine without us. But, in case of iceberg… they have a few extra boats at the ready.”
The questions shifted, as anticipated, to the ‘Robin’ years.

“Mr. Grayson! Wayne stuck you in a costume at the age of eight and expected you to leap rooftops, dodge bullets, and face extreme danger. Wouldn’t you consider that to be abusive?”
Dick affected a shrug. “I was a circus performer from the time I was five. Facing danger in a costume wasn’t something Bruce introduced me to. He just gave me a better reason.”

“But the stunts you performed as Robin could have gotten you killed.”

“Same thing would’ve happened if I’d missed the trapeze swing, or overbalanced on the tightrope. Danger is danger, and I’d been facing danger for nearly half my life before Robin ever put in an appearance. What Bruce gave me was purpose. As a circus performer, I pulled off a lot of dangerous stunts primarily to wow the crowds. As Robin, and later, as Nightwing, I used, and continue to use those same stunts to save lives. I’d consider that an improvement.”

“There’s been a lot of speculation about a billionaire like Wayne taking in a young boy, practically off the streets. There’ve been rumours of improper conduct. Care to comment?”

“Apart from categorically denying any and all such insinuations? And going on record as stating that nothing ‘illicit’ or ‘improper’ ever occurred between us? No.” A twinge of anger that Dick was unable to suppress crept into his voice, but thanks to Roy’s drilling, he was able to maintain his composure.

They asked him about his disappearance from the Gotham social scene, his life with the Titans, whether he was seeing anybody…

Dick laughed at that one. “No comment.”

“Mr. Grayson, with Bruce Wayne currently in police custody, your own life has been pretty much torn apart. This press conference only came about as a result of Wayne’s arrest. Given the changes that are sure to take place for you, going forward, do you plan to come out with a show of support for your former legal guardian?”

WGKN newscaster Deirdre Campbell suddenly found herself looking into a pair of intense blue eyes. “Actually, he’s legally my father, now. Has been for a couple of years.”

“Mr. Grayson, do you intend to come out with a show of support for your father?”

Dick decided, right then and there, that he had had enough questions for one day. He frowned. “I think I just answered that question Ms. Campbell. Along with all the others I’m prepared to respond to today.” He raised his voice. “I appreciate your willingness to come out here today and, via this conference, to allow Wayne Enterprises to reassure its customers, in the most public way possible, of its continuing presence in Gotham and around the world. Thank you all for your time, and good day.”

He walked over to the elevator. Behind him, he could hear the reporters clamouring for one last question, one more comment… but less strenuously than they might have done.

Lucius followed. As the doors closed behind them, Lucius extended his hand. Uncertainly, Dick took it.
“That went better than I’d hoped for,” the older man breathed. “Well done.”

5:15 p.m.

As the door of Barbara’s van slid shut behind him, the other passengers began clapping and cheering.

“I knew you could do it!” Dinah squealed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

“Never doubted it for a second, Robbie,” Roy echoed. “You had ‘em eating out of your hand!”

“Yeah, thanks to you two,” Dick replied.

“Yeah, I wondered if maybe we were a little tough on you… but then I remembered about the time you shoved a gun in my face to force me to get past that night I got shot.”

“Oh, you mean you bought that explanation?” Dick asked innocently, earning himself a cuff on the head from Roy.

“Good one, Bro,” Tim said quietly.

Barbara took her eyes off the road for one instant to smile back at him. “We’ll celebrate later, Hunk-wonder. Just the two of us. For now…”

“For now, Cass is back in the ‘Haven. Tim, Roy… you know what you’re doing tonight.”

Both nodded. “Prove the multiple Batman theory and keep you safe from the evil sheriff of Gotham-town a little longer, Robbie-Hood.”

“Cute, Roy. Just don’t do anything fancy, and don’t get yourself shot.”

Barbara spoke up. “Dinah’s going to head down to the morgue. I think someone should speak to the ME… make sure he didn’t mess up somehow.”

“Who ordered the autopsy, anyway?” Tim asked suddenly.

Barbara thought for a moment. “Stearns,” she remembered. “It was a ‘T. Stearns.” She frowned. “That’s weird. I don’t think I’ve heard of him before… but it seems like there’s… something I should recognize about that name.
“Roy, Tim, can you make it the rest of the way to the ‘cave from here?”

Both young men nodded. “Good. The van’s a little conspicuous.” She pulled over to let them out.

“Thanks, Babs. Catch you later.”

“Not if Akins catches you first, Tim. Be careful.”

The teen nodded, and slid the door shut.

Dinah faked a yawn. “Hooboy,” she said loudly. “It’s been a long day. Hate to leave you two all by yourselves, but would you mind dropping me at home?”

Barbara smiled gratefully. “Sure thing.”

9:58 p.m.

Dick entered Bruce’s room with some trepidation. He knew how his mentor felt about anyone seeing him in a weakened state. The guards at the door moved aside to let him pass. Bruce was sitting up. He turned at the sound of Dick’s footsteps.

“You came,” Bruce said.

“Sorry it took so long,” Dick said as he sat down, “I had to convince Akins I wasn’t going to bake you a cake with a file in it.”

Bruce didn’t doubt it. “I… saw you today. On TV.”

Dick suddenly looked apprehensive. “Oh?”

“It was…” he hesitated, trying to find the words to convey what he wanted to without sounding… feeble. Or at least more feeble than he actually felt. “It was… good to hear what you said.”

Dick grinned. “Oh. Well, good then. They’re treating you alright?”

Bruce shrugged. His expression turned serious. “Thanks,” he said. “For coming back.”

He reached out and squeezed Bruce’s shoulder. “You know I’m here when you need me, Big Guy,” he said quietly.

Whether he deserved it or not. “You know… about…” His breath caught in his throat. “…Alfred.”

“That’s why I came back,” Dick said gently, easily.

Bruce seized hold of Dick’s wrist, gripping it with both hands. “I dropped him, Dick,” he said fiercely. “I had him… in my hands… and I dropped him. Not far, but he was… you know he was… no longer… young. Any fall wasn’t good for him. And… his last moments… it could have been the fright that killed him…”

Dick shook his head. “No, Bruce. It wasn’t.”

“It could well have been!”

Dick placed his free hand on Bruce’s other shoulder. “No, Bruce. It wasn’t. If he wasn’t already dead, he was in the final stages of an insulin-induced coma.”

Bruce gaped at him.

Dick continued inexorably. “I read the autopsy report. I saw the file. Somebody put 100 units of insulin into his left bicep about a half hour before the building went up.” Dick nodded as he saw Bruce’s expression harden. “I’m still trying to get my head around the fact that he’s gone,” Dick said, feeling hot tears well in his eyes, “but Bruce, you did not do anything to cause his death. Not a thing. I’m not making this up to make you feel better. It’s the truth. Believe it. You didn’t kill him.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in. Then Bruce released Dick’s wrist. He placed both hands on Dick’s shoulders. “Find Black Mask,” he whispered, as a nurse came in with two paper cups. One for pills and one for water.

“Visiting hours are over, now,” the nurse said cheerily. “Mr. Wayne, we’ll be turning down the lights for you in just a moment.”

Bruce tightened his hold. “Find him!” He said with a dreadful intensity.

Dick glanced about. Suddenly, the police officers seemed a lot more attentive. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just give me another minute.” He placed both his own hands on Bruce’s shoulders. “I will,” he said grimly to Bruce. “Bet on it.”

12:45 a.m.

“Roy did what?” Dick shouted in angry disbelief. “And you went along with it?”

Tim faced him nervously, although more confidently than he would have a year ago.

“I couldn’t exactly stop him,” he replied. “Look, bro’. It’s not even like it’s a bad idea. Akins wanted Batman running around while you were visiting Bruce. That’s what he got. It was even your idea to have two Batmen out there.”

“Two, Tim. Not five! Don’t you get it? Somebody could have gotten killed out there tonight!”

“Par for the course,” Tim shot back. He paused. “Look. If Roy had asked me, I would’ve said no. But he didn’t. And we did good. Grace and Huntress even nailed Riddler.”

“Nice to know some of us accomplished something tonight,” Dinah said. “The ME said he’d never heard of Stearns until his name turned up on the autopsy order. I checked the hospital directory and there’s no Stearns on the staff.”
“No listing in the phone directory either,” Barbara chimed in. “But there’s something so familiar about that moniker. Dinah, go back tomorrow morning? Maybe someone on the day shift would recognize the name.”

Dinah shrugged. “Okay, if you say so, Babs. But I think it’ll be a total waste of--“

Tim gasped. “Oh. Migod.”

“What?” Dinah asked.

“You know,” Tim said tightly, “Brentwood had an enriched curriculum in a lot of subjects. Including English Literature.”

The other three looked at each other, then back at Tim. “Go on,” Dick urged.

“My last term there, we were covering ‘The Wasteland’.” His face had grown pale. “The poet who composed that work was T.S. Eliot.” Seeing their blank stares, he elaborated. “Thomas Stearns Eliot.”

Three pairs of eyes widened. Three jaws dropped. Thomas Stearns Eliot. Thomas Elliot. Doctor Thomas Elliot. Hush.

“This,” Dick stated, “is not good.”