New Recruit

Peter tries to sate his mother's demands another way...

The Clocktower, June 24th, 1:11 a.m.

 

“A what?”

 

I glanced over at Robin who leaned against the work counter of Oracle’s station. After a beat I repeated myself, “An FBI task force has been brought in, essentially taking over for Special Crimes. They’ll be arriving tomorrow morning, so whatever evidence we need to obtain yet, must be taken care of tonight.”

 

Barbara leaned back and spoke cautiously, “As in evidence from the locked vault of the Evidence Room in GCPD.”

 

I nodded in affirmation, and looked at Barbara, “You’ve given her the list?”

 

Robin’s face still held a look of confusion. He had been late in arriving at the Clocktower and had missed the previous discussion. Fortunately, it did not entail his involvement so I clarified in shorthand, “I’ve assigned Batgirl to retrieve the needed information.”

 

“Stolen evidence,” Barbara muttered.

 

I paused before continuing, “And a file that lists the basics on this new task force. Agents’ names, experiences, et cetera. From there, Oracle will be able to research their histories through the Bureau’s files, which leaves you with surveillance of their activities, beginning tomorrow night. We already know they’re staying at the Regional, a suite on the twelfth floor. You can set up cameras and recorders tonight.”

 

He nodded, and I could instantly recognize a hint of disappointment on his features. Not even a mask could hide the fact that he unhappy with his task, but even still, he would perform it to his best.

 

Once he and Batgirl had set out for the remainder of the night, I consulted with Barbara for another fifteen minutes. Our profile, however bleak, was the only progress to have been made in the case within the last few weeks. Twenty to thirty-five year old male, some combat training, six foot or taller, Blood Type A, a great amount of physical strength and stealth, topped off with an strong emotional hatred for women with an even stronger desire for control over them.

 

A regular red-blooded average Joe.

 

With a hunting knife.

 

After she started looking into the airline passenger lists, checking to make sure our FBI friends were indeed arriving the next day, at 9:15 a.m., I left her to her work and proceeded to take on some of my own. The night before, I had contacted Gordon and met him at his office. There, he had informed me that the case was out of his hands and that the anti-vigilante agents from the Bureau were on their way. My previous experiences in handling extreme cases behind the backs of Federal officers had been limited, but I knew enough that things were not about to get easier. For years, Gordon had been my inside link to information that had not always been available.

 

And with him out of the picture, I had to reinforce the negative aspect of my position by sneaking through the cracks and disappearing with what I needed, legal or not. Gordon had wished me the best of luck and had promised to do what he could for me. Which for that particular night, had involved unlocking a rear window on the fourth floor of police headquarters, allowing for a simple entrance and exit for Batgirl.

 

At a quarter after two, I found myself in the ‘Mobile, parked across from the First National Bank. In my years of work, I had handled numerous robbery attempts, all of which had been poorly planned and executed. As I glanced at the darkened lobby through the glass doors, I thought back on my last visit, where a trio of young women had tried to clean out the safety deposit boxes after blowing open a hole in the rear wall of the bank. Unfortunately, their miscalculated efforts had not only tripped the alarm, it had also failed to make an opening in the rear vault and instead had blown into the men’s bathroom.

 

A quiet beep sounded on the instrument panel and I depressed a small blue button. Oracle’s face formed on the screen and she seemed satisfied. I hoped silently that her efforts had not been as futile as mine.

 

“Well, looks like our profile is twenty words longer than the Feds’. I accidentally found my way into Agent Rich Caffery’s e-mail account and he had a few notes saved off of his palm pilot there. His preliminary profile is intensely focused on a sex offender basis, not of the criminally insane variety. And considering he’s the head of this little pow wow, I’m afraid solving this is still on our shoulders.”

 

After a beat, I asked, “What else did he have?”

 

“Nothing too interesting. Just reminders to check VICAP, the sex offender list for the state and city and that he had to pay his cable bill before heading to the City.”

 

“He’s not in it for the thrill,” I stated, “He wants the control.”

 

She nodded, “Well, I wouldn’t call what he did last week as being controlled.”

 

“Something happened, something to upset his schedule. If he’s as calculated as I think he is, he wouldn’t have just switched that quickly.”

 

She had no reply. I decided that we were done anyway and proceeded to sign off. Just as I was about to tell her, she spoke, “Be interesting to find out what woman scarred him so badly, that he would do this. Even a mother spanking their kid one time too many or missing their football game couldn’t do this to someone.”

 

I suddenly flashed to my mother’s smiling face. Telling me that my father would be missing dinner.

 

Thanksgiving.

 

My birthday.

 

After we ended the connection, I traveled across the city, towards Tri-Corner. Once four blocks from GCPD, I parked the vehicle and headed skyward. Barbara had suggested that a mother had been responsible for this killer’s hatred of the opposite sex. It very well could have been, I thought back on the countless young lives I had faced that had been tormented through years of abuse. All of that pain and suffering only collected and intensified over the years.

 

So much so that a young boy could grow up to be the monster he had feared as a child.

 

^V^

 

Residence of Peter Placido, June 24th, 6:45 p.m.

 

Having left work at six, he had the remainder of the surprisingly warm and dry evening to himself. The house was immaculate, the dishes and laundry all clean and with no one to feed but himself, he had practically nothing to worry about.

 

To spend the time, he decided on visiting the lawn and garden store a few miles from his home in order to buy some lawn fertilizer and paint for the rear deck. The clear skies weekend would be spent in the quiet sanctity of his home, so that he could cast his troubles aside and work on getting life back to the normal routine he thrived on.

 

While in line for the register, cart full of his purchases, he had allowed a young girl to go ahead of him, since she was only buying a bag of dog treats. She grinned and thanked him. As she paid in quarters, he mused to himself that at young age, they were manageable. It was just as they grew older and forced their ways into the lives of happy families and ruined said lives in the blink of an eye. Or the rapport of a handgun.

 

“Sir?”

 

The aged cashier looked at him quizzically and it was then he realized he had been holding up the small line. And that he had been squeezing the cart handle so hard that his fingers throbbed when he eased the pressure. Without another word, he paid in full with exact change and then quickly left the store, knowing for sure that the eyes of the accusing were on him.

 

Once he returned home, he changed into worn jeans and a light tee-shirt. The predicted high was already surpassed as the thermometer on his doorstep read seventy-three. From there, he went about spreading the fertilizer over his recently cut lawn and then stored the remainder in an air tight tote in the garage. With only a few hours of daylight left, he had decided against starting to paint. But, there was plenty of enough time to wash the car. And maybe take it for a drive.

 

At a quarter of eight, he stepped into the house, flecks of soap in his hair with sodden shoes, and made his way to the bathroom. He stripped effortlessly and stepped into the shower, allowing the scalding water to douse him. As he washed his hair, he did his best to focus on the blue tiles of the shower wall. And not on the soft voice that echoed in his mind.

 

How many nights had he stumbled into the bathroom, in wet pajamas, doing his best to not wake them?

 

When his mother had been alive, he had sought her out for comfort after an accident. She would help him wash up and would change his bed for him on her good days. When she was in a bad set, she would simply let him sleep in her bed. After she had died, his father had been less kind. He shuddered suddenly, thinking back on the disappointment and frustration in his father’s face and voice.

 

“Jesus, Pete, this is getting old”

 

He had always apologized and his father had done his best to hide his anger as he stripped wet sheets at two in the morning. He recalled one time, after they had left home and moved to the hellish city, asking if he could sleep in his father’s bed. Even though he could tell his father had wanted to, the W***e had refused, calling him a filthy queer who could soil his own bed, not hers.

 

And instead of defending him, his father had nodded slowly and sought out clean blankets for him to use on his own bed.

 

“Traitor” he mumbled as water from the showerhead splashed his face.

 

Fourteen minutes later, he was dry and dressed in a pair of green flannel pants. After putting bread in the toaster, he stepped in to the living room and pressed play on the answering machine. The first had been a message from a “Laura” looking for “Tom” but wasn’t sure if she had called the right number. He deleted it and went on to the next.

 

“Mr. Placido, this is Alicia Wont at the Human Resource department of Wayne Enterprises. I was just calling to confirm your continued interest in applying for a position on our security team. There is an available interview tomorrow at four-thirty if you are available. Please call to confirm at 800-929-6368, extension 787.”

 

Opportunity has knocked, he thought to himself as he memorized the number. Returning to the kitchen, he allowed himself a slight smile. He was scheduled to work until six, but with Charles Morgan “owing” him a favor, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem to leave early and to head over to Midtown. To Wayne Enterprises. As with a good chunk of Gotham’s citizens, he was all too aware of how prestigious employment at WE was. And besides, protecting a billionaire was far more exciting than a bank lobby.

 

Over dry toast, boiled eggs and a glass of orange juice, he let his mind drift. A new job, a purposeful job would surely impress her. Perhaps then, the urges would subside and he could start over. He then brushed such thoughts aside. Nothing would ever satisfy his mother’s wishes, for no matter what he did, there would always be those that hurt others and those that were hurt.

 

And he would always have to be both.

 

^V^

 

Wayne Manor, June 25th, 7:15 a.m.

 

As I sat in bed drinking a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain Style coffee, I decided that Bruce Wayne would be taking a four-day weekend.

 

I reminded myself to have Alfred call ahead to have the Gulfstream V readied for a trip to Aruba. Unfortunately, I would not remind myself to make it to the plane for its departure and all the hassle would be for nothing. With the agents arriving around nine, I would be slightly too occupied observing them instead of boarding for yet another wasted weekend getaway.

 

Cassandra already agreed to meet me at the airport with Tim, in their own disguises, and we would then stake out various spots to keep an eye on and then divide them amongst ourselves. There were to be a total of five agents, with Caffery as the Special Agent In Charge, which would give us plenty to watch. His name had sparked a few memories of a usually ferocious and victorious agent who had specialized in the most violent cases he could get involved with. Unfortunately, whenever he apprehended a suspect, it was usually of the “shoot now, shoot until he stops jerking and then ask a question or two to a dead body” variety. Bloody shootouts were his claim to fame.

 

And he was bound for Gotham.

 

Alfred returned to take the breakfast tray, of which I had only taken the coffee off of. He scowled slightly at the poached eggs and then asked, “Seeing how we have chosen to skip the most important of meals, might I inquire as to what else is in store for the day?”

 

I told him the basics of my plan and asked for him to contact the hangar and to have the pilots ready at nine-fifteen to take off to the Caribbean. After leaving with the tray, I rose and instead of donning one of countless three-piece suits in the front of my closet, I stepped towards the rear. I selected a pair of worn khakis, scuffed loafers and thin turtleneck. After choosing a scruffy tweed coat, I exited and made my way to the bathroom.

 

In the bottom drawer of the counter, I removed a small metal box. Once entering the set digits into the miniature lock, it opened silently. Since I had been going for the scholarly look, I went about selecting a pair of thick eyeglasses with dark rims and bifocals. Although thick as the bottom of a soda bottle, they were clear and had no affect on my vision. I then decided that my thick black hair looked hardly intelligent and chose a wig which not only had frizzy gray hair on it, but also added four inches to my forehead.

 

When Alfred returned eight minutes later, I was applying a light coverall that paled my complexion slightly. In the interim, I had grayed my eyebrows, applied a prosthetic and pointy nose and had inserted contact lenses that darkened my blue eyes to hazel.

 

“Dashing to the last, Master Bruce.”

 

I ignored him and spritzed a foul cologne on my neck before putting on the tweed coat. Before leaving the room, I found a worn leather shoulder bag and then headed out. Surprisingly, Alfred did not follow me into the Cave, where I inserted long distance recording devices into the bag’s front pocket after testing them on bat shrieks that originated from nearly forty yards away.

 

Upon reentering the house through the clock, I nearly bumped into Alfred as he stood poised with a small stack of hardcover books. Before I could ask, he said, “An intellect without his books is as practical as a king without his crown.”

 

I offered him a smirk of gratitude and then secured the books in the bag. The titles on the spines were of animal anatomy and physiology, one of which had a tiger’s skeleton on the cover. Meow.

 

As with any undercover operation, I used one of several vehicles that were not registered under my real name. The 1996 green Ford Focus LX with more than enough dings and scratches that betrayed the mere 30,000 miles on the odometer. Bypassing the James Memorial Highway, I took a quiet county route around the city to the airport. Traveling alone, I was able to finalize my disguise by imagining myself as the other being that I had created. Within moments, I was no longer myself, but Adjunct-Professor Alex Buckhout, formerly of GSU’s prestigious animal science division. I repeated this concept over and over in my head while driving three miles under the limit. Ready to brake for any deer crossing.

 

The first sign of life since leaving Bristol had not been that of the hooved type, but a lone jogger. He was fairly tall and appeared to have been going at it for some time considering the sweat that drenched the back of his tank top. I waved while driving by the curly haired man but he showed no sign of acknowledgement. I clearly understood the focus that drove him, for when I worked, all interruptions were ignored.

 

Traffic picked up just before the exit for the airport and my slow driving irritated those behind me. Once on the ramp, it was only a quarter of a mile before the main entrance. From there, it was impossible to miss the expansive paved runways that sprawled for miles on the right side of the road. Jets taking off and landing uttered deafening roars from above and as I pulled into the underground parking, I wondered which ones our guests would be on.

 

I was the first to make the meeting point, which happened to be a small coffee lounge just to the left of the American Airway registration counter. The small tables were relatively empty and I actually managed to find one with three chairs. An exhausted waitress no taller than five foot approached me and took my order for an expresso. It was just after she left that I saw them.

 

Tim wore a navy blue ball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses, which had adequately hidden most of his face. The remainder of his dress had been casual and plain: baggy blue jeans, form fitting long sleeved shirt and a pair of leather sandals. Cassandra had also taken on the role of teenager with hip hugging stonewashed jeans and a sleeveless blouse with thick-heeled shoes that reminded me of a pair Selina frequently wore.

 

Although I had been able to see them, they still had yet to decide which of the lounge’s patrons I happened to be. As they walked passed my table, I looked up and spoke with a soft New England accent, “Summer is such a busy time here, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Tim turned back, did a double take and then smiled before sitting down with me. Cassandra had been hesitant but once she saw me beyond the balding man in the tweed coat, she seemed satisfied to join us. After my drink arrived, we quickly went about discussing the various points of the arrival bay that could be watched. Tim volunteered for the terminal gate, Cassandra opted for the luggage claim, which left me with the main exit into pickup lane.

 

I handed out portable comm. links and then left five dollars on the table before getting up and leaving for my post.

 

^V^

 

Wayne Enterprises, June 25th, 4:00 p.m.

 

“Sir, may I see a form of identification, please?”

 

He was pulled up to the security booth at the entrance of the visitor’s parking lot. Even though he had a half of an hour to spare, he still felt rushed and quickly revealed his driver’s license to the man garbed in blue. As the card was reviewed, he took a chance to look over the guard. Big, burly, with a grim face that would steer any one with impure thoughts aside. Exactly the kind of power he desired.

 

“Very well, if you would put this on your dash,” he handed over the license and a pink card that read “Visitor: 6/25”, “And pull into the visitor’s lot.”

 

As he took the items, he asked, “Where would I find Human Resources?”

 

“Ah, third floor, take the elevator’s in the main lobby, get off and take a right. There will be a welcome sign that will take you to the HR lobby.”

 

He paused, nodded then drove off. Parking was a challenge, and he had to navigate several rows before finding a space large enough for the SUV. He thought dryly, City drivers. With one last look in the mirror, he brushed back his hair with his hand and tried a soft smile. Then, with an updated resume in hand, he took the keys out of the ignition, locked up and headed for the glass doors of the main entrance.

 

Everywhere he looked, gold emblazoned W’s marked doors, direction signs and even the stone ground he walked on.

 

The main lobby drew a breath from him. Massive structure, with marble floors, columns and paneling on the reception desk. After he took a breath, he walked quickly towards a bank of elevator doors and pressed the button. The doors opened almost immediately and revealed an empty car. Stepping in, he pressed the button for the third floor and then rode up, alone and in complete silence. When the doors opened once more, it revealed a slate blue corridor, from ceiling to floor. He stepped off cautiously and looked to the right and just as the guard had said, there was a framed sign welcoming him to the Human Resource department.

 

The waiting area was lavishly furnished with over stuffed couches and in the corner, a small kitchenette with self- serve gourmet coffee and snacks. Having an uneasy stomach from his nerves, he simply headed straight to the receptionist desk and said, “I’m Peter Placido, Alicia Wont scheduled a 4:30 interview.”

 

The woman seated behind the desk tapped on a keyboard after offering him a warm smile, “All right. I’ll inform her that you’ve arrived.”

 

He nodded in acknowledgement, paused, and then decided to have a seat. After chancing a glance at his watch he thought, Twenty more minutes. To pass the time, he studied the room’s blueness, the faint pattern on the carpet and then his feet. Finally, a husky feminine voice announced, “Mr. Placido?”

 

He looked up to see a door to the side of the front desk had opened and revealed a tall, leggy woman dressed in a knee length black skirt and a teal silk blouse. He stood and approached her. To him, her smile was a bit too friendly, but then again, her profession called for open and pleasant behavior. She offered her hand and he hesitated before taking it lightly, “Hi, I’m Alicia, if you’re all set, we can step into the interview room and get started.”

 

She held the door open and he passed through. As she led the way down a narrow hall, he said, “I have an updated resume.”

 

She took it, her fingers just brushing his. A jolt of warmth ran through him and he nearly jerked from it. After opening a door on the left hand wall, she lead him into a small conference room, with a round table and six chairs placed equally around it. After he took a seat, she sat a chair away from him and scanned the document he had given her. She crossed her legs slowly and he tried his best to keep from staring at her.

 

“I must say, your experience in the field is extensive. What interested us was your studentship at the Police Academy. Did you leave for any specific reason?”

 

He answered the question as he had on the countless other times he had been asked about the topic, “I thought I had wanted to become an officer. But they don’t prevent problems, they just handle them after.”

 

“Good point. Even still the education you received there has shown to be very beneficial. My brother-in-law is the assistant manager of the First National and had nothing but the best to say about you.”

 

As she spoke, she pictured the man she spoke of and hardly saw any resemblance between her and the stocky balding man. He tried his soft smile on her and she responded warmly.

 

He breezed through the remaining questions, which grew increasingly tedious and seemed to be a waste of time. Finally she stood and offered her hand again, “Well, Mr. Placido, welcome to Wayne Enterprises.”

 

Once out in the reception area, he received a folder that included a collection of documents he had to sign in addition to an employee hand guide and a list of those already employed in the security department. He agreed to call her the next day with his available hours for his training and introduction. As she guided him to the front doors, he asked, “Is Mr. Wayne in the building?”

She laughed rudely and he almost sneered at her, “Not on a Friday afternoon. Actually, you’ll be lucky if you see him in your first month here. He’s not one for keeping regular hours, but when he does come in, he’s holed up on the top floor in his office.”

 

On his way home, he stopped at a small grocery store and bought eggs, tomato sauce, milk and paper towels. By the time he made it home, it was a quarter after six. As he put the groceries away, he spoke to the silence of the room, “It’s going to be all right. They liked me.”

 

“How can you be sure?” her ragged voice replied.

 

He slammed the jar of tomato sauce down on the counter and it shattered. The sauce splattered in every direction as shards of glass clattered on the tiled floor. He winced as he felt a sharp pain in his palm, and after wiping away a glob of tomato, he found several small cuts. As he rinsed his hand with the sink faucet, he said quietly, “They don’t know. They don’t have to. It’s a new start, a new life.”

 

Her voice came, “They know, Peter. They all know what you are. I don’t want you to get hurt--.”

 

He pressed a towel into his palm and squeezed it into a fist. The pressure stung but he smiled at the pain.

 

“They can’t hurt me,” he said, a surprising amount of strength in his voice, “No one can.”

 

^V^