#2: Lustmord, Pt 2 (Charlton / Flinchum)

Far below the prettily dressed couples swirling to Pachebel and Handel, beneath the ancient estate warmed by the cheerily roaring fireplaces where the elite of Gotham society had gathered to celebrate the holidays, in the chill, dark cave, Bruce Wayne wore a costume that struck fear into the hearts of the stoutest evil-doers, as he again examined the prosecution’s case against Montagu John Druitt.

Something just wasn’t sitting right with him… Yes, the Ripper murders had stopped with Druitt in custody, and the police had built a very solid circumstantial case against the sad, deranged little man--- but the World’s Greatest Detective couldn’t help but feel it was all a bit too neat: all the parts neatly arranged for him to piece together…

And Montagu John Druitt seemed the perfect patsy.

He scanned the police files, going over the evidence again: blood transfer that matched the last victim, personal affects of two of the girls found in his room at Arkham, and a sobbing confession with surprisingly scant details…

No, what he was looking for wasn’t here.

His mind kept going back to the message scrawled in blood on the wall in Crime Alley…

Lustmord.

Not a message so much as an announcement.

He could not shake the feeling that Hugo Strange was involved in this somehow, despite how obvious (and thus unlikely) that appeared. It was as if the professor was playing a game, taunting him with a sly wink, almost daring Batman to call him out…!

Bruce stiffened at his monitor screen. Was that it? Had he been snared by some homicidal gambit of a new archfiend?

His fingers flew over the keyboard. He would have to dig deeper than he had first suspected. Lustmord. Strange was the modern authority on the concept, but not its originator… A thorough search of a wide variety of internet databases resulted only in tantalizingly scant information: the term had been coined in the 19th century by the German traveler and mystic Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt, in his controversial and much-banned occult opus, Unaussprechlichen Kulten, or Nameless Cults, but this was the only information he could find. It seemed to him that the title was familiar. Perhaps he had seen the book in his father’s collection…?

“Master Bruce?” Came Alfred’s familiar, disapproving voice.

Not turning, Bruce waved his faithful servant away.

“I’m going to have to cancel my appearance at the Christmas Ball, old friend. Please give my guests---.”

“I think there is one guest in particular you may want to see.”

“Tell Lucius I’ll see him at the office on Monday.”

“Not Mr. Fox, sir.” Sniffed Alfred. “A Professor Hugo Strange.”

When Bruce had closed the door behind them, shutting off the lively sounds of the party, Strange immediately went to the well-stocked liquor cabinet and proceeded to help himself to a brandy.

“I must say,” The professor began. “You intrigue me Mr. Wayne. The richest man in Gotham, one of the wealthiest men in the world, actually, and you keep such a ridiculously low profile.” He passed a glass to Bruce and the two men sat in arm chairs across from one another, Strange sipping his brandy appreciatively, Bruce not touching his at all.

“I don’t crave the spotlight. Or notoriety.” He answered flatly.

“Or you have something to hide, something you don’t wish to call attention to…”

Strange smiled benignly, but his eyes, seen through his dottore mask were arresting and intense.

“What do you mean by that, Strange?” Bruce challenged.

“I have a confession to make.” There was a barely contained jubilant quality in the professor’s voice now. “As I student of the human psyche, I am fascinated by Gotham. Nowhere in the world is there such a collection of clinical disorders, psychotic aberrations, not to mention mental delusions…! But particularly, I have been fascinated from afar by the creature who calls himself the Batman.”

Bruce stiffened, but his face remained composed.

Strange went on.

“You see, I have made a rather in-depth study of the man, compiling what I think is a fairly accurate profile.”

“I thought we were going to talk about the lustmord killings.” Bruce said coldly.

“Oh, we are, we are.” Strange insisted and went on. “Batman is a societal and cultural anomaly of the highest order, and as such must have been birthed from a significant trauma, such as witnessing his parents murdered in front of him at a young age. He has taken on the persona of a grim and macabre figure, which suits his crusade on the element that deprived him of a normal, well-adjusted life--- and at the same time sets him apart from the mass of humanity. I would conjecture that he is a man of independent means, else how else could he afford the specialized tools of his trade, or the luxury to practice said trade.”

There was something about his voice, a kind of cadence that when coupled with the glare of his beady eyes, commanded a listener’s enraptured attention.

“I won’t bore you with any more of my clinical observations, or my years of detective work and research into Gotham history, except to say that such a man as the Batman would be fueled by the twin motivators of grief and rage. Perhaps enough to drive him to a psychotic break and to murder.”

“That’s absurd.” Bruce spat, setting his untouched snifter of brandy down with a splash. “Are you trying to pin the lustmord killings on Batman?”

“Even the noblest intentions can be warped by latent emotional scarring.” The professor leaned forward, never allowing his eyes to release Bruce’s. “Your parents were murdered in front of you when you were a child, weren’t they, Bruce? Left you all alone in an ugly world that offered no solace unless you took it yourself.”

“I had Alfred…”

“A servant? No, you put on a brave front, and when the lights were all off, and the bedroom door closed, you cried for your lost mother, reached for your slain father… And your dreams were haunted by the face of the man that brutally snuffed out their lives. You look for that monster’s face in every passing stranger, every night you go out… And every night you don’t find him, he murders them anew!”

“What? No! The hell…” Stammering, Bruce struggled to look away from the mesmerizing stare of the professor, to turn away from the droning voice, aware deep down that he was being manipulated. A vision of his mother flashed violently in his mind’s eye, of the expression on her face as the bullet entered her chest… the splash of blood from her mouth…

“I understand that you’ve suffered another, more recent tragedy.” Strange’s voice was soft now, almost compassionate. “Julie Madison, your fiancée. She was murdered, too. By the madman known as the Joker, before the Batman was finally able to put him away again.”

This blow told. Bruce visibly flinched. He had driven Julie out of his thoughts, could not afford to think about what might have been… But now the image of her arose again, and he felt his breath catch, a familiar ache shuddering through him.

“It was quite the dramatic scene, I understand.” The professor’s voice nursed the knot of grief swelling in Bruce’s breast. “I spoke to the self-proclaimed Clown Prince of Crime at Arkham. He had made a promise to kill Batman’s junior sidekicks, Robin and Batgirl, and apparently the Batman had ordered them to lay low until he could bring the Joker to justice once more. But they disobeyed. And they fell right into the fiend’s trap! He boasted that he brutalized Batgirl, and beat Robin to within an inch of his life. And while Batman was busy rescuing his young protégés, the Joker went on a shooting spree in downtown Gotham, that left twenty people dead--- including your dear fiancée, Mr. Wayne! More lives lost, more dear ones never to return!”

I told them to leave him to me! I couldn’t protect them, and stop the Joker at the same time! I couldn’t save everyone…!

Anyone…

Bruce had to physically swallow to keep the confession inside. He ground his teeth together, but could not control the moistening of his eyes.

Julie. Dick. Barbara. A new list of names to add to the growing litany…

“Robin and Batgirl haven’t been seen in Gotham since.” Strange mused. “I’m sure you can empathize, Mr. Wayne. After all, your own ward left town right around the same time, no?” He clucked his tongue. “Grief and rage. That’s when I believe the Batman snapped. At last the nature of his dual persona manifested itself in a profound psychotic break from reality. He found release only in the savage expression of his pathos, perhaps in revenge on his mother for deserting him at such a tender age? He may not even be aware of it! He could be blocking out the events, creating a new personality to protect his increasingly fragile psyche… How many nights has he returned to his hidden lair and wondered: where did this blood on my hands come from?”

Visions of crime scenes, forever burned into his memory, rose up and assailed him. Like pages in a flip-book, they flashed before him, all different, but all the same in that death laughed back at him. He screwed his eyes shut to block them out, to push them away, and covered his ears to the half lies and almost truths Strange hurled at him---.

A ragged gasp escaped him, and he shot from his chair. He staggered away from his tormentor, still seeing the afterimage of those piercing eyes, hearing the echo of that persuasive voice.

“You’re wrong, Strange…!” He heaved through a laboring chest. “I’m not who you think I am!” But he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince more: Strange or himself.

Surely, theses things could not be true…? He was no murderer…

“No, of course not.” Strange cooed, gently setting his glass down and rising to face Bruce. “Bruce Wayne is not Batman, and Batman is no killer… But can you tell me who is doing these things? Can I talk to him? Perhaps I can ease the voices, make them go away for awhile…?”

He reached out a tentative hand, but Bruce dashed it away with a snarl.

“Get out!” He rasped, not looking the doctor in the eye, trying to drown out the sound of his voice. “Leave now, Strange, or so help me…!”

The professor calmly walked past him and out of the room, and Bruce did not see his self-satisfied smirk.

“I don’t have time for this, Gordon.” Bruce prowled the small study, straining to get out of his ridiculous costume, and into a different, less gaily colored get-up.

“I’ll only take up a moment of your time, Mr. Wayne. “ Gordon was flipping through a small spiral notebook. “And if we can’t do this here, we can always do it downtown…”

That stopped Bruce in his tracks.

“What is this about?”

Gordon fixed him with a careful stare.

“There’s been another Ripper murder. Tonight. And not very far from here.”

Only the clenching of his jaw revealed that Bruce had heard the words.

“The news hasn’t gotten out yet. The mayor doesn’t want to cause a panic on Christmas Eve. But when the papers find out the wrong man is behind bars…”

“What does this have to do with me, detective?” Bruce asked with some exasperation, falling back into the well-practiced persona of apathetic dilettante.

Gordon wordlessly handed over a plastic bag with a crumpled scrap of torn paper inside, which Bruce took, and seemed to give a cursory glance, but his eyes devoured every detail hungrily.

It was a receipt from a local florist shop for a delivery order, and the address was all too familiar to him.

“We found it at the scene. Do you recognize it?

Bruce handed the evidence back to Gordon.

“No.” He shrugged. “I didn’t place this order, if that’s what you’re asking. Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Gordon stuffed it back into the pocket of his rain coat and grunted noncommittally.
“Just one more thing, Mr. Wayne: it’s common knowledge that prior to your recent engagement you were one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors, and were linked to a number of young ladies, the reporter Vicki Vale among them.”

“Yes.” Bruce admitted tightly, his blood freezing. Was Vicki---?

“Ms. Vale isn’t the victim.” Gordon noted the look on Bruce’s face. “It’s just that she didn’t report to work today, and nobody’s heard from her in a while. We’re concerned because of a series of letters she received from the Ripper. I was wondering if---?”

“My relationship with Ms. Vale ended badly.” Bruce admitted, wanting more than ever now to get Gordon out of there so the Bat could hit the street. “We haven’t spoken in almost a year.”

Gordon nodded as if this were significant, then, passing his card to Bruce, wished him a Merry Christmas, and showed himself out.

In moments, Bruce was in the cave and fitting the cowl snuggly over his face!

In his upstairs office, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham was working late. It didn’t matter that it was Christmas Eve; he didn’t have a real family left. All he had was his children in the rooms with the padded walls below…

He was bent over a patient’s file, when he heard a scratching at his window. Going over to investigate, he saw nothing but the full moon and the gently falling snow. He was about to return to his desk when he heard the sound again. He went back to the window and opened it--- Suddenly, a dark-gloved hand shot in, seized him by his shirt, and dragged him over the ledge!

Batman dangled him over the grotesque he was perched upon, the doctor’s feet kicking furiously over empty air and a hundred foot drop to the courtyard flagstones below.

“Listen to me closely, Arkham, because I’m only going to ask this once.” Growled the Dark Knight. “What the hell is a psychic virus?”

Arkham gibbered incoherently for a moment, but after a vigorous shaking was persuaded to collect his thoughts in a more organized fashion.

“They’ve never been clinically proven!’ He shrilled. “But some investigations suggest that certain intense sensations and compulsions can be transmitted by susceptible carriers, usually through the means of an intuitive form of hypnosis!”

Batman loomed over him.

“That’s absurd. Germs carry infection. How would a psychic virus take hold?”

“Nobody knows for sure!” The doctor cast a quick glance downwards and swallowed heavily. “But some individuals have been known to influence others by the force of their will alone… Rasputin, Hitler, David Koresh. It’s a very similar phenomenon to crowd mentality. A famous study in the 19th century by Charles Mackay showed that---.”

“Alright, enough. One last question.” Batman pulled the terrified doctor in close, his breath steaming on Arkham’s face. “When Hugo Strange first came here, was he assigned to Montagu John Druitt, or did he seek him out?”

“Neither.” The doctor stammered. “Druitt was already in the professor’s care. He was transferred in. Along with Strange’s other patients.”

Under his cowl, Batman’s eyebrow arced.

“His other patients…?”

“Yes! He brought in four other men. James Maybrick, George Chapman---.”

“Michael Ostrog and Frances Tumblety!” Batman finished, aghast. Like Druitt, the names would all be aliases, but they fit Strange’s modus operandi exactly.

“Why, yes.” Arkham admitted, panicked and perplexed at the same time. “How did you know…?”

“Montagu John Druitt, James Maybrick, George Chapman, Michael Ostrog and Frances Tumblety.” The Batman ground out between his teeth. “The names of the five men suspected in the Jack the Ripper killings of 1888. If you check their cells tonight, doctor, I’m sure you’ll find they’ve been given a holiday furlough.”

In a surge of strength and anger, Batman hurled Arkham back through the window of his office, cursing under his breath. He held out his arms and stepped off into empty space, allowing himself to glide to the ground.

Hugo Strange was playing a lethal game with him, and not one but five Jack the Rippers were loose on the streets of Gotham this Christmas Eve!

Batman pounced on Hugo Strange, kicking away his medical bag and snatching him up by the lapels of his greatcoat.

“It’s over, Strange.” He yanked Strange’s face close to his, the professor’s glasses cracked and sitting on an angle on his nose. “I know who you are and what you’ve done. They’re preparing you a room of your own at Arkham now!”

The professor cackled feebly, trying in vain to pry the Batman’s hands off his coat. He fixed the Dark Knight with an imploring look.

“Nonsense, Bruce! We both know the truth, don’t we?” He gasped for breath. “We both know how that dark seed was planted all those years ago in Crime Alley, and how it blossomed into dark fruition when they planted your beloved in the ground!”

Batman shoved Strange roughly against the grave marker, scattering pots and urns of fresh flowers.

“It won’t work.” He snarled. “I know what you are trying to do, and I won’t let you drive me mad! I know who I am and what I am capable of!”

But as he said this, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, the small card that Strange had placed with the flowers moments before. It read: For my beloved parents, who deserved a worthier son and legacy…

He released Strange and looked up in stunned surprise. Though Vicki’s weakly struggling form was covering most of the monument, it was obvious to him now where he was. So consumed with finding Strange, he hadn’t noticed that he this wasn’t Julie’s grave at all, though it was nearby. The names on the carved marble read Thomas and Martha Wayne!

“How dare you!” Batman flashed whirling on Strange. The professor had managed to back a safe distance away, and wielded a razor now in his right hand.

“Finish it, Bruce!” Strange implored, and as he spoke, from out of the fog and snow around them, four figures stepped into sight, all dressed just as Strange in bowler hat and coattails; Maybrick, Chapman, Ostrog and Tumblety, all dressed like Jack the Ripper.

All consumed with lustmord.

Batman’s eye’s flickered to the ring of foes closing in around him, but Strange went on in his wheedling tone.

“Surrender to your innermost desires, and be the person you were meant to be! Allow the lustmord to sharpen your focus, to satisfy that crimson craving within you! Take the blade, Bruce, and go to Vicki! Allow her to be an offering to the fiend struggling to be born in your soul! Only her blood can set it free, and release you from its grip!”

Reversing the blade, he held it out to Batman

As if from a distance, Batman watched himself accept the razor, his mind numb with a scarlet haze. He barely registered Strange’s triumphant grin as he turned back to his parent’s grave, and the helpless girl bound to it, the knife glinting in his gloved hand.

His will was not his own. The professor had implanted a hypnotic compulsion within his mind, so long walled off, but weakened now by the events of the last months. He saw Vicki’s eyes widen in terror the closer he got to her, but he could do little about it. Around him, the Rippers closed in, watching him in silent approval.

He focused on her bare midriff where her shirt was torn, narrowing in on her quivering navel cavity… He longed to drag the cruel edge of the razor across that alabaster stomach, to see the thin red trail open up, to feel the warm gush of blood on his bare hands…

“My god, Bruce, is that really you…?” Vicki breathed in a barely perceptible whimper. “Please… Please don’t…”

Batman raised the blade, and looked up at her, looked into her panic-stricken eyes.

“Bruce… Bruce…”

Facing Vicki Vale, bound and struggling weakly on the cross of his parent’s monument, Batman held aloft the razor in his hand and looked her straight in the eye…

And winked.

His mind clear, the knife flashed downwards, slashing through her bonds in a blur of motion. She fell, weeping, into his waiting arms, but the Batman did not linger. The Rippers were upon him in seconds, but he leapt off the monument in a tight whirl, his weighted cape flaring out and scattering his attackers.

Batman landed in a fighting crouch, still holding the wilting Vicki Vale in one arm, while in his free hand appeared a trio of batarangs. He hurled them, pining James Maybrick to the side of a mausoleum, then he ducked a slashing blow from George Chapman, gracefully kicking out with his foot at the same time, breaking his assailant’s kneecap and sending him moaning to the ground. Michael Ostrog had not hesitated, and was upon the Dark Knight in an instant, stabbing down with his weapon. But Batman was not unprepared. Still one handed, he caught Ostrog’s wrist, twisted it brutally, and reversed the blow, smashing Ostrog in the face with the butt of his own knife, felling him. Using the killer’s unconscious body as a club, Batman swung him by his wrist into Frances Tumblety who was rushing in from behind. Tumblety went down under Ostrog’s weight, his leg broken underneath him.

Hugo Strange watched in horror as the Batman made short work of his minions then turned on him. Safe for the moment, the Dark Knight left Vicki Vale and slowly, menacingly, advanced on Strange.

“I--- I know who you are, Wayne! I’ll tell the whole world!” Strange backed away, stumbling slightly, blanching from the grim set of the Dark Knight’s jaw.

“I don’t care. I’m taking you in tonight, professor. You’re going to pay for the evil you’ve done.”

Strange lobster-crawled away, scrambled to his feet, then took off at a head long run. Batman surged in pursuit. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the villain the billowing cape of the Dark Knight spreading out behind him.

In his headlong race to escape, Strange did not see the freshly dug grave, lying empty before him.

But Batman did.

“Strange, stop!” He called, reaching for his cord of batline, but to no avail.

Hugo Strange pitched headfirst into the hole, with a strangled screech that was cut suddenly short.

Reaching the grave, the dark Knight peered down into it; the body of Hugo Strange was splayed at impossible angles at the bottom of an eleven foot drop, his neck hideously twisted.

It was then that the police sirens became audible, and in the distance, he could make out the red and blue glare of their approaching squad cars. It was about time. He had called for them before he even reached the cemetery…

When he turned around, Vicki Vale was there. She stared at him in wonder, her eyes searching his. For a moment, as the sirens got closer, neither said a word, both unsure of what to say… It was only when they began to hear the voices of officers that Vicki at last sighed.

“Go! Your secret is safe with me--- for now!” She groaned, against every reporter’s instinct she had. “But we’re going to talk about this soon!”

With a quick, tight nod, Batman turned in a snap of leather and melted into the night, just as Lt. Detective James Gordon, flanked by two armed cops, rushed onto the scene.

“Merry Christmas, boys.” Vale waved weakly. “Your presents are all neatly wrapped over there, courtesy of the Batman!”