#51: Hard Times (Hermann / Paisley)

Jim Gordon stepped into the pitch black morgue and slid his hand against the wall, searching for a light switch. He found it and gestured for Batman to follow him inside. The room was kept at near Antarctic temperatures to preserve the bodies from decomposing. Batman’s suit made the proper adjustments. Gordon’s coat didn’t provide such comfort. His measured walk showed otherwise. He made his way to the mortician’s desk, picked up the clipboard on top, and read the document attached.

“32B,” he said.

Batman opened the appropriate locker, and slid the metal table out. A white sheet on the table covered g a distinctly human figure. Two feet poked out from underneath, far too small to belong to an adult. A piece of cardboard hung from a toe read: Charlie Gaddon. Batman removed the sheet and began his investigation.

“I’ll be in the alley,” Gordon said and headed for the door. Batman didn’t acknowledge him.



Gordon searched his pocket for a pack of cigarettes that hadn’t been there for years. Some part of him held a hope it would be. He dug deeper into his pocket and tried not to think about Barbara. Too many years in this city had calloused him. He had seen horrors reserved for hell alone, and he had seen many of them. These days they rarely bothered him, but on nights like tonight, Jim Gordon just wanted a goddamn cigarette. He hadn’t had five minutes to ponder the fact when a familiar voice emerged from the darkness.

“Jim. I found him.”



Mark Gaddon’s child was dead. The boy he had seen barely twelve hours earlier wasn’t there anymore, and never would be again. Why was this city punishing him like this? He had done nothing wrong.

“A’right,” said Detective Bullock, “you ready to get started, Mr. Gaddon?”

“Yes. Yeah, I am.”

“You can take another minute if you want.”

“No, it’s alright. Let’s just get this done.”

Bullock adjusted himself in his seat and picked up a notebook.

“Okay. When was the last time you saw your son?”

“This morning before he left for school.”

“He walk alone?”

“He’s eleven,” Mark said and smiled, forgetting for a moment the circumstances of the question. The moment passed and the smile with it. “He wouldn’t let me walk him if I begged. He went with some of his friends.”

“To James Buchanan Junior High, right?”

“Yes.”

“I went there myself, actually.”

Mark faked a smile.

“We talked to the school,” Bullock continued. “He spent the entire day there, went to all his classes. So whoever picked him up did it after school.”

Picked him up, Mark thought, like a piece of meat.

“Where’s Charlie’s mom?” Bullock asked.

“There was, uh…a…a car crash. She…she died. Nine months ago.”

“How’d Charlie respond to that?”

The nerve. “How do you think?”

Bullock wrote something in his notes. Mark wondered why someone was turning up the heat in the room.

“Are we almost done here?” he asked.

“Just about. Do you know anyone who might hold a grudge against you, Mr. Gaddon?”

“No. I don’t know why anyone would.”

“Lotta weirdoes around. Nothin’ like that?”

“No, nothing.”

Bullock wrote some more. He opened his mouth to continue his questioning, but a loud buzz cut him off. Without taking his eyes off Mark, he took out his phone and answered it.

“Bullock. Uh-huh. You serious. Already? Shit, a’right, I’ll be right there.”

He hung up the phone, and stood with a smile. Mark watched and tried to pretend his palms weren’t drenched in sweat.

“Can I go home now?” he asked.

“You can, Mr. Gaddon, but if I were you, I’d stick around.”



Batman gripped the rooftop and dropped down onto the ledge below. The whisper of a noise accompanying the action was covered under the autumn wind. He tried to open the window on next to him. Locked, as he expected. He took a batarang and traced the razor sharp edge around the window. A neat slab of glass popped out of the frame. Batman climbed inside.

The apartment belonged to an Adrian McBryar, a forty-two year old dishwasher with a record. He had served six-years in Boston for assaulting a man walking down the street and attempting to kidnap his daughter. After what the state considered adequate time, he was released and migrated to Gotham, where he fit right in. McBryar wasn’t a psychopath with a theme or suffering from some extreme mental condition. He was just evil. The kind Gotham breeds for a living.

That afternoon McBryar had picked up Charlie Gaddon on his way home from school. That night he had dumped his dead body in a trashcan four blocks from his apartment. He was sloppy; Batman had found bits of fingernail embedded in Charlie Gaddon’s thigh, revealing everything he needed to know about the boy’s murderer. Batman found Adrian McBryar passed out on the living room couch. Every nerve in his brain told him to break every one of his bones. He denied the need.



Bullock’s car reeked of cigar smoke, despite the open window. He couldn’t care less, but it seemed like every time he’d go out with some girl she’d always act like the car was filled with mustard gas. He thought maybe it was about time to stop using his police cruiser to drive chicks around.

There was a single knock on the trunk. Bullock reached to his side and watched the trunk pop open in the rearview mirror. The back of the car slanted down as the body of a two-hundred pound man dropped inside. The Batman closed the trunk and knocked once more. Bullock started the car and drove out of the alley and towards the police station.



Bruce made his way up the stairs to the master bedroom. A quiet breathing pattern he had memorized years ago stopped.

“Shouldn’t you be in Bludhaven?” he said to the darkness at the top of the stairs.

Dick Grayson stepped out of the shadow, arms crossed.

“I decided to stick around.” He jumped down to Bruce’s level. “You don’t mind do you?”

“You don’t need my approval.”

“Just didn’t want to interfere with your plans. Whatever they are. Alfred told me about tonight.”

“Black Mask won’t be a problem.”

“Not him. That boy. It’s been all over the news. Glad you caught the guy.”

“Me too.” Bruce said and moved past Dick, up the stairs.

“But, like, you don’t want to…”

Bruce turned around.

“I know the answer to this,” Dick said, “but you don’t wanna talk about it or anything?”

“It?”

“Bruce… come on, are you kidding me?”

“This is Gotham. Toughen up.”

Bruce continued up the stairs, oblivious to the fear on his partner’s face.



Mark Gaddon watched the digits on the clock change for what felt like the thousandth time in a row. It read 9:07 but he could have sworn it said 3:00 just a few minutes ago. The curtains in his room hid any daylight morning might have brought. Mark laid in bed staring at the digits change for another two hours until the doorbell rang.

He ignored it for a long time, but when it became obvious there’d be no stop to the ringing, he forced himself to answer it. He opened the door to a man in a suit he could have sworn he’d seen on TV.

“Hi,” the man said, “I’m Bruce Wayne.”

“Don’t you have any, uh, bodyguards or anything like that?”

“I don’t see a need for them.”

“Stupid if you ask me. How can I help you?”

“Actually, Mr. Gaddon, I think I can help you.”

Mark chuckled and shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m sure this’ll make for some great publicity if you’re planning on running for mayor or president or whatever, but I’m not in a chatty mood.”

Mark went to close the door but Bruce’s hand shot up and stopped it.

“Mr. Gaddon,” he said, “No one ever has to know I was here. Five minutes is all I ask for.”

What the hell, Mark thought, beats watching the clock. He opened the door, sat down on the couch, and nodded his head towards a wooden chair. Bruce said he preferred to stand.

“I saw you on the news last night,” he said. “You have all of my condolences.”

Mark nodded. Is this what I invited this prick in for? For his pity?

“But like the rest of Gotham, I was glad when they caught that son-of-a-bitch.”

Does it give me my son back? “It’s no great comfort.”

“No, I didn’t expect it would be. This city isn’t good for you, Mr. Gaddon.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t have any family in Gotham. Your job pays twelve dollars an hours. You have no reason to stay. All this city will do is remind you of the pain.”

“What the hell kind of nerve do you have to tell me--” Mark started to get up. Bruce held out his hand and urged him not to.

“Mr. Gaddon, you deserve to start your life over somewhere on your terms.” Bruce reached into his jacket and pulled out a check. He handed it to Mark, who had to triple check the zeroes.

“This is… This is five million dollars.”

“It won’t bring your son back, but it might help bring you a new life.”

“Mr. Wayne… I can’t…”

“Please. Try.”



“I’m going to tear your head off your neck!”

Black Mask was not happy.

“You have to understand that this was not foreseeable!”

“NOT FORESEEABLE? Hofburn, you little shit. I am literally going to tear your head off your neck!”

”What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything, I WANT MY TWO THOUSAND POUNDS OF HEROIN BACK!”

Black Mask was not happy at all.

“Mr. Sionis. Black Mask. Please. We did not anticipate that the Batman would be a problem, that he stopped the entire shipment just… couldn’t have been expected.”

Black Mask stomped over to the bar in the corner of his office. Hofburn saw him grab a knife and considered jumping out the window. Black Mask could see the fear of pain in his eyes, and it made his smile. He grabbed a lime from one of the drawers and began to slice it up.

“Let’s go over this, okay?” he said as he cut. “For my amusement.”

Hofburn nodded and tried to turn invisible in his chair.

“You said that the Batman had been spotted all over the world. Europe, Tokyo, whatever,” said Black Mask. “Am I right?”

“Right.”

“And then I said, but Hofburn, I’ve been watching the news and they got a story about Batman kicking the crap outta some guy every night. Then what’d you say?”

Hofburn tried to answer, but Black Mask wouldn’t allow it.

“You said it ain’t the real guy. Then you showed me some conspiracy bullshit website that compared one blurry photo to another blurry photo.”

Black Mask thrust the knife into the cutting board.

“And -- and the police reports,” said Hofburn.

“That’s right, the police reports that showed clear differences between now and a year ago.” Black Mask mixed himself a drink and threw most of the lime slices in. “And I bought it. But then, Mr. Daddy-Mommy-issues Bruce Wayne, who still owns my company, don’t forget, announces that not only is he publically supporting and financially endorsing the Batman, but that there’s gonna be Batmen everywhere.”

Black Mask stopped only for a large swig of alcohol.

“And at this point,” he resumed, “I’m about ready to cancel the whole operation, but you convinced me otherwise, didn’t you, Sam? You said there being Batmen didn’t mean the real Batman was back in town. That all we’d need to do is get the biggest bastard around to break this fake Batman’s fucking head. Ain’t that right?”

“Waylan Jones was by far the best choice, sir, I stand by that decision.”

“Croc-his preference, have some respect, Hofburn-did exactly the opposite of what we hired him for. The exact opposite of what you promised. You told me it would be alright. Was it?”

“Sir…”

“WAS IT ALRIGHT?” Black Mask slammed his glass into the floor. Hofburn nearly fell out of his chair.

“No, sir, it was not alright,” he mumbled.

“Damn right it wasn’t. But you know what? Thank you. Now I can spot bullshit from a mile away. You could say you taught me a lesson. Did me a favor.”

“Mr. Sionis, I apologize for every--”

“And my ma’ always taught me to return favors. She said it was my duty to give to others what they gave to me. So how about a free education?”

Black Mask picked up the lime-juice covered knife and threw it like a spear into Hofburn’s thigh. Hofburn hollered in pain and stumbled onto the ground, shocked at the amount of blood pouring down his leg. Black Mask made himself another drink.

“Don’t worry,” he said as Hofburn bellowed on the floor, “it’ll be alright.”

After he finished mixing his drink, he sauntered to the bleeding man and knelt to his level. He squeezed Hofburn’s face tight and forced him to look into his pale eyes.

“Won’t keep you from going to work tomorrow,” he asked, “will it?”

Hofburn shook his head.

“No it won’t. Because tomorrow you’re going to call your boss in for a meeting.”

Hofburn’s eyes went wide.

“Oh yes, Sam. That boss. We’re going to burn down the Bat’s wallet. We’re going after Bruce Wayne.”

To Be Continued

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