Case File 2738 Epilogue: Gone Missing

Part Five - Conclusion

Eight months ago: He gave me closure after my parents were killed. Or rather, he gave me the training to find my own closure. I don’t know what would have happened to me if that hadn’t happened and God knows I’ve thought about it enough nights when I couldn’t sleep or during some boring class. It used to scare the hell out of me.

But the older I got, the more I believe that without what Bruce gave me—without Robin, I think I still would have been mostly okay. I think I would have, anyway. Different, sure—but okay.

Dr. Leslie said something to me a few years ago which stayed with me. She told me that she thinks that I would have thrived (that was her word) in just about any foster home which was even marginally approving and I would have really blossomed (again, her word) in a place which was actively supportive. But then she said that if I hadn’t come along in his life when I did, that Bruce might have been lost to his obsession. She claimed that taking me in, being responsible for someone else, especially a needy kid, was what forced him out of himself enough to function as a reasonably normal person. At least most of the time. She said that he may have saved me but I saved him right back and she’d made sure he knew it.

I never considered the concept before she said that. I guess I was just so awed by him, so grateful, that it never occurred to me that it could be a two-way street.

Strange to think about it, but it made a difference to me.

 

* * *
 

“I have her in sight on the monitor—just waiting for her to make the pick up.”

“You need back up?”

“Not yet. Stand by.”

Dick watched the monitor intently, staring, waiting for the woman to pick up the envelope, make the score. Bruce, Batman and Wally were waiting to serve as back up if they were needed, but Dick wanted to make this collar on his own. This was his case, he was the victim—more than the others, and he wanted to be sure this was done right, done now and done for good.

He watched her hesitate, pretend to browse, pretend that she was probably just waiting for her husband or a friend over in the meat section or something while she picked up this book or that—put them down and moved on to the next, all studied nonchalance.

He knew her the moment he saw her. She was wearing the same coat, same scarf, same sunglasses even in the warm warehouse.

Who was she, anyway?

What difference did it make?

How long had it taken her to plan all this—had she planned it or had it just fallen into her lap?

She moved closer to the pile of Danielle Steel hard-covers.

 

* * *
 

Nine months ago: The shrink really pissed me off and not for the first time. He’s a doctor, he’s a psychologist. I get it. He’s supposed to know what the hell he’s doing and he’s supposed to be good at his job. I really do get it.

What I don’t get is how the fuck he’s supposed to begin to understand the things in my life which have shaped me and brought me to be the person I am.

Seriously.

Sure—there’s a commonality of mankind and all of that but the people who’ve been through what I have? Not so much.

Raised from birth to be a child performer in a traveling show. Witnessed my parent’s murders. Orphaned. Lost in the child care system/locked in a juvie cell at the age of eight. Abandoned by my blood family. Taken in by a frigging billionaire who turns out to be Batman. Trained to be the first sidekick and managed to (if I say so myself) set the standard. College drop out. Cop. Adopted by said billionaire and made his official heir. Continues as a costumed vigilante.

You show me anyone—anyone—who can relate to what I’ve done and experienced but this guy seems to think he can react to the things in my life and my thoughts and feelings as though I was some run of the mill rich kid.

He hasn’t a clue. None. And he’s pissing me off.

The latest? He thinks it might be a good idea if Bruce and I sat down and wrote one another letters to express our hidden, repressed feelings for one another. Bruce do this? Is he fucking serious? Has he listened to anything I’ve said all this time? Does he have even a single clue?

And he says that I’M the one who’s fighting my emotions.

Christ.

 

* * *
 

She picked the top book off the pile, scanned—or pretended to scan the inner flap and the first page. Putting it down she took the second book off the pile and set it aside then moved the third book. Dick could see the edge of the envelope sticking out where she’d uncovered it. Casually she picked it up, barely seeming to glance at it and slipped it into her pocket. Replacing the books where she’s found them, she slowly moved down the length of the table and around the display of wrapping paper.

 

* * *
 

He couldn’t believe that she could be the one who was causing all this trouble. He’d never considered her capable of something like this, even though he knew she had some problems, some serious problems she was having more and more difficulty handling.

But this? He’d never thought…

He had to do something. He had to. For the love of God, the ramifications, the consequences if she wasn’t stopped, if she went through with this. Not just for him but for that young man, his friends and—if he wanted to be melodramatic—potentially for the entire world could be catastrophic.

There were things bigger than him. He knew this and, though he never thought something quite some cosmic would ever apply to him or affect his life—well, life’s what happens while you’re busy making other plans, right?

He knew—or at least he thought that she hadn’t given the information or the disks or whatever form she’d converted the stuff into. He didn’t think she had. She may well have tried to sell them, made some inquiries to whomever one asks about these things but any real deals and hand over the cash stuff? Probably not.

It was the old man he was worried about—that butler of Wayne’s. That butler/major domo/right hand man/father figure of Batman’s for crap’s sake. Normally she’d never do anything to harm a stray cat, let along an old man but she wasn’t being normal—or normal for her. She was being…odd.

Angry.

Anger was bad because you could never really predict where it would go, what it would turn into. Some people get all hot, fly off the handle, grab a gun or a car or a bottle. Some people go all ice and calmly arrange to steal some stranger’s stuff and blackmail them with it.

He knew her. She went ice cold and calmly, rationally would plan how to get whatever it was she wanted. It wasn’t the money, though a billion dollars would get almost anyone’s attention. She wanted to get even. She was angry because of him and he knew it.

Don’t get mad, right? Get even.

 

* * *
 

Two months ago: Bruce was on my case again about the BPD. It’s wearing thin. I know how he feels and God knows he never misses an opportunity to let me know how much it hasn’t changed.

I could be using my time better almost anywhere else. The PD is largely cleaned up and I should move on. I’m risking my identity by playing both sides of the coin like this.

Even Alfred has started the same refrain, though he usually prefaces it with “now you know how terrible proud I am of your efforts…” which is when I know about to get it with bot—very polite—barrels.

It’s getting to the point where I don’t go up to the Manor as often as I’d like or as much as I used to, though I assume no one has either made a connection or even noticed.

 

* * *
 

“I’m moving.” Dick left the security office, headed down the stairs and towards the main door just as the woman came around the display of cheap flowers and flannel sheets. She walked straight ahead, looking neither left or right and making no eye contact.

The store’s people had been told to let the outsiders handle this, they had enough back up and this didn’t involve anyone in the store. Better to let them get her outside to minimize any possible danger to customers or employees.

Past the impulse aisle of bulk lots of cheap candy, past the endless lines at the registers, past the door checker marking receipts as people left the store with their purchases. Through the warehouse sized double sets of doors to the parking lot and the long rows of cars and SUV’s. He followed at a distance, staying out of her line of sight, not that she bothered to look back or see if anyone cared what she was doing or where she was going.

She stopped next to a dark blue Toyota RAV4, opened the back hatch, rearranged something, slammed the door closed and turned towards the driver’s side.

 

* * *
 

He knew he had to do this. He did.

Having Nightwing as a client brought home to him an idea he’d never really believed in or cared about—any more than he cared how doctors make you well or a nation does what it can to keep it’s citizens safe (well, okay—most of them, anyway). It simply wasn’t part of his consciousness.

The more he spoke with the man, the more he listened to him, to what he had to say. The more he understood Dick’s fears and concerns, the better he realized what motivated him and his peers and how he lived his life he more he knew that he was doing the right thing.

This was his fault—indirectly and, God knew, without his awareness or help or approval or any of that but none of that mattered in the long run.

If she did what she was intent on—if she killed the old man, if she exposed the closely guarded secrets of Nightwing and the Titans and the JLA she could cause more harm, more damage to…

He had no choice.

In the scheme of things he didn’t matter.

The heroes did.

 

* * *
 

Seven months ago: Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if we didn’t function; if the League and the rest didn’t exist—like if we were just fiction or from someone’s imagination. If there really were no Superman, or Batman or Aquaman to watch over the seas and no Green Lantern Corps had ever been formed what would life here be like?

Would someone have to invent us?

 

* * *
 

Dick was just stepping from behind the large van a few parking spaces from the RAV when he instinctively dropped to the ground as he heard the four shots, scanning the lot and shouting for people to get down, get under the cars. The shots came with no warning and, because of the acoustics of the U-shape of the shopping center, it was impossible to tell what direction they’d some from—it could have been almost anywhere. Unhurt other than some minor road rash, he looked under the van, through the tires to see the woman on the pavement next to her opened car door, blood starting to flow away from her on the slight slope. Half-crawling on his stomach, he reached her by going under the three high vehicles separating them. Dead from a bullet to the head, half of her skull gone from whatever caliber was used—it was a heavy weapon, he was sure of that.

He searched her face—no, no one he’d ever seen before and certainly not anyone he knew. He had no idea who she might have been or why any of this happened, other than the usual motivation of money.

Was it really that simple?

Screams from around the parking lot.

No more shots.

Had the local cops intervened? Has some SAWT team over reacted? And where the hell was the Justice League backup he was supposed to have standing guard out her in case he called for them?

He rose to a half crouch, looked through car windows to find out what was happening.

There he was, thank God—Clark was about fifty feet away looking at his pavement and preventing people from getting closer.

Looking at the pavement? What the hell was over there that was so interesting? The body was next to Dick.

Sirens. Screaming. The usual confusion and panic when there’s a shooting. Dick had seen this before, too many times. He knew the drill. If Clark was just standing, then the shooter was contained and he was likely the reason; Superman could be counted on.

The first ambulance pulled in with the fist squad cars. Ten more cop cars and three more ambulances were clogging the parking lot inside of ten minutes and the first news helicopters were just starting to be heard as they found their coordinates.

The local cops were here, ordering him away from the body. “I’m a cop.” He showed his BPD badge and was allowed to stay and asked questions he deflected until he was speaking to the higher ups, other than to say the woman was under surveillance and he was on the case. Carefully he leaned down and pulled the envelope out from the inner pocket of her coat, now soaked with blood from a body wound.

He saw the suspicious look from the local sergeant. “Evidence” He held it u so the man could see what he had. “This was what she came here for.” Dick looked over at Clark again, now quietly talking with the authorities, most of whom seemed more concerned about getting his autograph than whatever it was he was saying.

Leaving the woman’s body where it was with the locals taking the pictures and doing the basic forensics, he made his way over to Clark, now also ready to move away.

On the ground was a man, clearly dead from what appeared to be a self inflected wound, judging by the positions of the body, the wound and the gun still in his hand.

The doctor. Dick’s doctor. Dick’s shrink—his ex-shrink.

He was the dead guy on the asphalt. He’d killed himself and, from the way things went down, probably killed the woman as well.

Whoever she was.

It was over. At least for now.

 

* * *
 

Three weeks ago: I understand the idea of suicide. I mean I understand why it might seem appealing. I can even justify it, rationalize it; if you’re in a situation which, for whatever reason—physical agony, emotional pain—whatever, is intolerable, unendurable and there’s no (and I mean absolutely no) chance of that situation ever improving then I get it.

If it’s that bad and there’s no hope of it ever getting better, then do what you have to.

Having said that, I don’t know that I’d ever be in that situation. I’m not going to say never but it would take a lot—a fucking hell of a lot for me to get to that point, but I do understand how people can get there.

Of course, too many people jump the gun—no pun intended—and do the deed when they don’t have the perspective to see a way out but that’s part of the problem with it I suppose.

 

* * *
 

“That’s it? That’s what all this BS was about? Are you shitting me?”

“Language, Master Dick. Language, please.”

Dick spared Alfred a short glance, completely unabashed. “It can’t be that simple.

“Why ever not?”

Why not, indeed? Of course it could be this simple. The woman was the doctor’s ex wife, angry at her share in the divorce settlement. She wanted to hurt him somehow, found out Dick Grayson, son of billionaire Bruce Wayne (the man talked too much when he drank wine with friends) and figured that a rich kid would be as easy a target as she’d ever find. When the doctor found out she’d impacted his clients—and when the AMA found out he breached patient/doctor confidentiality—he’d be severely disciplined and possibly even lose his license.

The fact that he was Nightwing was just an added bonus.

She still had his laptop locked in the trunk of her car. She was going to take it with her when she left the country and read the hard drive when she got to Switzerland.

But the doctor had found out.

He’d followed her to the shopping mall, intending to confront her, unaware of the trap Nightwing, Superman and Batman were about to spring closed on her. He simply beat them to the punch.

 

* * *
 

The kicker is that I really think that talking with that shrink was helping me deal with things. I thought I could talk without the inhibitions everyone has and I loved that. I said what I honestly thought and spoke to him like he was a blank wall—no judgements, no criticisms, no admonitions, no warnings, no telling me I was off the wall or making mistakes. After all the years with Bruce, I needed that—and still do.

Murder/suicide.

I feel some responsibility, of course. But only some. I don’t blame myself for the fact that his ex-wife was angry enough to try to destroy his practice. I don’t feel responsible that he believed the only way out was to kill her and then himself because he evidently believed that she’d ruined his professional future.

Some part of me wonders if any contact with me has potential for death. I know—I’m being melodramatic but I do wonder at the growing list of people who’ve died after knowing me; my parents, Donna, Joseph, Barbara’s shooting and on and on. The rational side of me tells me this is ridiculous ego on my part but there are enough that it makes me wonder sometimes.

But I don’t really believe that and I still need that outlet, that release.

When the dust settles, when I get time to take a few breaths, I’m going to find a new shrink—one who can cope with me and my kind better.

The end


4/25/08
 

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