Closing In

Peter's actions catches Batman's undivided attention.

The Bat-Cave, June 29th, 10:31 a.m.

 

With Barbara’s assistance, I had been able to download the file on the car accident from the sheriff’s department. Not the shoddiest work, but close. Fortunately, they had invested in a digital camera and had taken well over fifty photographs of the crash. In addition, I had hard and soft copies of the files on the accident to that point.

 

Several of the better photographs of the collided cars were on the large monitor, set beside ones I had taken of the body found in the woods.

 

Without license plates, VIN numbers and registration the car would be much harder to trace. Thankfully, the killer I had been hunting for the last four months wasn’t one for taking purses. A driver’s license listed her as Corrine Lilley-Martin, a newlywed resident of Midtown. Mr. David Martin had called in a missing persons report when she had failed to return or even call him on her way home from the Coleman Lake.

 

While a pair of solemn detectives informed him that his wife was dead, I had watched from a perch in a giant pine as the investigation crew and Feds staked the scene and did what they could to find evidence. I had already taken samples from under her fingernails and had checked for boot prints. The scrapings were the most likely source of information, but the scene had been fairly destroyed by the coyotes.

 

Having yet to sleep, let alone change, I sat in front of the computer monitors, staring up at the images before me. This victim suffered extreme assault, both physical and sexual. A ferocity we had yet to see from this killer. Barbara’s assumption that he was returning to normalcy seemed to be light-years away. Caffery had been on the morning news and I had watched with a scowl as he claimed to have found the crime scene while routinely checking leads in the area, a lie covering the fact he had taken a clue from a vigilante.

 

“Sir?”

 

I turned slightly, looking at Alfred as he approached.

 

“Would you care for anything? A warm bath? A healthy dose of Xanex, perhaps?”

 

“Maybe later,” I replied while closing the photos of the D.B. Alfred had seen his fair share of gore in his lifetime, and I felt guilty for bringing it back into his life once more.

 

“Ah. And how bodes the detective work?”

 

After reclining and closing my eyes, I rubbed them hard before opening them again, “The skin scrapings matched up with the semen and blood samples, but still nothing in any of the criminal data banks. No fingerprints, but I did find a few partial boot prints that vaguely resembled the ones taken from the Robinson Park scene.” I stood slowly, my legs cramped and my back aching after sitting at the computer for nearly four hours. “Still nothing on that second car.”

 

“And you are positive it belongs to this madman?”

 

“Definitely,” I leaned forward and rested my weight on my palms as I set them down on the countertop, paused, then rose, “Why else would all forms of tracing the car’s owner be missing. Far cry for some one not wanting to pay insurance fees. Barbara was working on locating dealerships and used car lots in the state to see if any of the same make and model had been sold in the last five years and if any private parking lots have it listed.”

 

He looked over my disheveled form carefully. He had traveled down the stairs to visit me five times since I had returned home shortly after four. I had requested to be left alone and he had in turn refused to do so and had done his best to interrupt as often as possible. When I looked up at the monitors, I noticed a blinking image in the corner of the screen.

 

Oracle.

 

I sat back down quickly and selected the icon. Her image filled the screen, dark splotches beneath her eyes. Her voice came over the speakers, “You look like hell.”

 

“Same to you.”

 

She nodded, half smiled and the proceeded, “Well, I’ve found about twenty possible matches on the second car. Six are in impound, twelve aren’t even in the state anymore and there are two in working licensed order. The first is registered to a Larry Graff and the second is under a Peter Placido. Larry’s married, in his late forties and manages a small appliance repair shop in Bryanttown, has three kids, the twins are at GSU, one in high school, graduates this year. Pter is a security guard at First National, mid thirties, single, no kids. No criminal records on either.”

 

“Either reporting their vehicles missing?”

 

“I’ve flagged auto theft records and scanners, so far nothing.”

 

I paused and then typed both names into a search system I had in the crays. Moments later I pulled up similar information on both men. After studying the cheery visage of Larry Graff, I moved onto the second one and stared in disbelief.

 

Tall, lean man, curly hair and a plain face.

 

The guy from the bakery who had touched the waitress.

 

Then another flash. The lone jogger I had seen on my way to scouting out the airport.

 

I tried to put it out of my mind as I asked Barbara to look in depth into both of them, to find out as much as possible.

 

She nodded, “I’m going to catch a few winks, but I’ll set the searches up. If anything big shows up, I’ll have it automatically sent your way... Probably wouldn’t hurt for you to get some sleep yourself.”

 

“I’m fine,” and then I closed the connection.

 

After a moment of bat shrieks echoing, “Ms. Gordon made a very wise suggestion, sir.”

 

I turned to look at Alfred with all of the resentment I could muster.

 

He showed no outward response other than the faintest of a smirk, “Ah, but then again you do seem to thrive on near exhaustion, hunger and dehydration. What a gladiator you would have made, sir.”

 

I decided to return to ignoring him and brought up the sheriff files as well as the material the GCPD and I had covered. In the mass of information was the answer. It was my job to find it. And my job alone.

 

^V^

 

Residence of Peter Placido, June 30th, 9:02 a.m.

 

For forty hours, he had laid on his bed, buried beneath blankets despite the warm summer air drifting through the window.

 

Upon returning home a day and a half earlier, he had buried the metal plates and registration cards in the flowerbed, four feet below the surface. He had then showered for nearly an hour, scouring his body with soap in order to remove the blood and dirt from his skin. Afterwards, it was necessary for him to wash the tub out and then to soak the clothes he had worn in the washer. Without dinner, he had locked himself in his bedroom, shut the lights off and had crawled into bed.

 

He had tried to watch television but every woman that came on the screen changed before his eyes. First, they grew to resemble the W***e and they laughed at him. And as anger bubbled inside him, the faces would transform again, to the girl on the road, screaming at him. And then she would alter herself, taking on the battered and dead look after he had taken care of her.

 

He decided it was safer to just lay there.

 

As sunlight began to sift trough the closed curtains, I did his best to keep his eyes closed. When he was little, his mother would come into his room early in the morning to wake him for a special breakfast for just the two of them. He had always pretended to be asleep, and she always knew that.

 

The phone rang, interrupting the silence that had lasted nearly twenty-four hours. The answering machine was in another room and he strained to listen to the caller’s message. Getting out of bed seemed to be a waste of energy, not that he had any energy to spare. But the thought of his mother’s French toast and Eggs in a Basket had drawn a long, painful growl from his stomach.

 

Deciding that it wouldn’t be too hard, he got out of bed, went to the bathroom and then washed up before heading for the kitchen. As he passed the phone and answering machine he pressed the play button. There were two calls from First National asking where he was and why he hadn’t called in, one from the dry cleaners, and the last had been the one from that morning.

 

“Mr. Placido, this is Connie at Human Resources at Wayne Enterprises. I was calling to remind you that the introduction brunch is this morning, hopefully we’ll see you there.”

 

He deleted each message, not really wanting to deal with any of it at the moment. He couldn’t get through watching a television program, let alone going out and facing the world. Perhaps he could call later, excuse his behavior. Or maybe he wouldn’t, and would show up whenever he damn well pleased.

 

He was still unsure whether his actions had been wise. He had decided, however, that what he did to that b***h of a woman was justified. Not only did she cause him to wreck his car, she was going to blame it all on him and have him arrested for something he didn’t do. There was no way he could let her do that. And it wasn’t what he did to her that worried him.

 

It was the cars.

 

He had no way of moving either of the cars. Hers was useless, wouldn’t even start. His had been able to start but would not shift. The tires had been off set as well. The girl had a cell phone in her purse but he wasn’t about to use it. Instead, he had walked twelve miles to his house, the night swelling around him. Luckily, traffic had been fairly nonexistent and people in the area didn’t even look at hitchhikers, let alone take them into their vehicles. Which had also been to his benefit, for his hands and clothes had been stained with blood and dirt.

 

Just as he prepared to move his food onto a plate, he heard a door creak down the hall. He did his best to ignore it and went about serving breakfast for himself. He couldn’t ignore her when he felt her breath on the back of his neck and her voice in his ear, “Peter?”

 

He didn’t reply, but simply stood there, hardly even breathing.

 

“Peter, you’re late.”

 

He shook his head and made his way to the table where he sat slowly and did his best not to shake while putting his plate down. She commented it on again, her voice losing its quiet control. As he reached for a fork, he felt her hand on his shoulder, “Peter, are you ignoring me?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why are you late?”

 

He waited, then, “I’m not going. I’ve... I don’t feel well.”

 

The faintest pressure appeared on his forehead, like so many other mornings when she had felt for a fever. He had grown to hate school, mostly because the other children had grown to hate him. No matter what he did, he would have to go back and withstand their ridicule each day. His mother always checked to make sure he wasn’t sick while his father only offered a partial smile, knowing why he wanted to skip school but also knowing that it wouldn’t work.

 

The pressure faded and he almost was certain that she was gone.

 

For the moment anyway.

 

He finished his breakfast, did the dishes and returned to bed, feeling no better than when he had gotten up. Somehow, his plan of getting back on track of things had faltered. She, the witch with the car in the middle of the road, had done it, he was confident. He had nearly lost himself, while finishing her off in the muddy ditch. Even then, as he laid in bed, he could still feel the rush that had coursed through him that night, how every muscle fiber in his being had been alive and strong.

 

Just like it had been with the others.

 

He could revel for hours how wonderful it felt, taking control over them and making sure that they would never hurt anyone ever again. Once smiling faces reduced to swelling and split lips. They could never taunt him or tease his father or even send his mother to an early grave. Or anyone else besides themselves for that matter.

 

Then why did he feel so terrible? Why was he not on top of the world, looking down on everyone just as they had done to him years ago?

 

He had caused them pain.

 

His mother’s voice returned, this time as soft and sweet as it had ever been, “Remember, Peter, they didn’t follow the golden rule. They did bad things to you, now you must do the same to them. You remember the golden rule, don’t you, Peter?”

 

He nodded and looked straight ahead, as if she was sitting across from him, “Yes. Do unto others... As you would have them do unto you.”

 

“That’s my boy...”

 

^V^

 

Wayne Enterprise Reception Hall, June 30th, 9:21 a.m.

 

“Mr. Wayne, so glad you could make it,” Connie Vreeland-Rhyes waved at me from the head of a small buffet table. She was wearing a silky powder blue pants suit and too much make up. Even still, I took her hand into mine and told her that she looked stunning. A slight blush came to her cheeks, “Oh, Bruce, please.”

 

I shrugged and glanced around the room, “So, where are the lucky new recruits?”

 

She gestured to a row of linen covered tables where several members of HR and the heads of various other departments were seated and working away at their plates, piled high with free food. As we walked over, she spoke quietly, “There was one new employee, a security guard, he didn’t show up and he’s not answering at his house. I wonder if something may have come up... Who knows.”

 

After greeting the familiar faces and introducing myself to the new ones, I took a seat and did my best to act casual and interested in the new members of “Team Wayne.” After ten minutes, I started checking my watch on a regular two-minute basis in order to insinuate that I had more important fish to fry. Connie was the first to speak up, “Bruce, if you’ve got a busy schedule...”

 

I stood and nodded, “Actually, I’m afraid I do. It’s Wednesday,” I stated as if that explained everything. After taking in their confused faces, I elaborated, “I have lunch with the Mayor and a whole bunch of meetings this afternoon.”

 

They nodded, their smiling faces telling me their hidden thoughts: This was the guy on the top of the ladder, ‘a whole bunch of meetings’?

 

I went around and congratulated the new employees once more, wished them the best and shook their hands before taking Connie aside. She seemed honored to be in my company, and did her best to show it by batting her eyelashes and pursing her lips. I paused then asked, “So this fellow that didn’t come today...”

 

“Yeah, I’m kind of concerned myself, it doesn’t seem like Pete to not show up, he’s a very punctual person.”

 

“Do you know him, personally?”

 

She shook her head and pulled back a loose string of fake blonde hair, “No, I feel like I do though, he’s that kind of a person. Anyway, his records over at First National are impeccable. Hardly even takes sick days or vacations even.”

 

I felt my chest tighten slightly and did my best to keep my face amiable, “First National Bank?”

 

“You bet, he’s one of their best, actually. He does so much there and you know they hardly pay for security, even though you would think that they would...” She took a breath and then leaned closer to me, her hand on my arm, “Don’t let this influence your image of him Bruce, he’s a really nice young man.”

 

I smiled softly, “Don’t worry, I bet something came up. I’ll have to meet him some other time.” With that, I said good-bye and bee-lined it for the lobby. Once in the safety of my elevator, I leaned my forehead against the cool gilded wall and closed my eyes. Perfect. A murder suspect and a Wayne employee. I had always done my best to separate my two lives, but somehow they always seemed to meet when I least expected them to.

 

Moments later, I was holed up in my office, the door locked, intercom off and phone silenced. It took five minutes of controlled breathing to get my mind back into focus. Placido, the second car’s possible owner, was missing. Unable to attend a brunch for reasons unknown. Not having a car would be the most likely, since his could very well be totaled in the impound yard.

 

With my near boundless powers, I was able to gain access to the Human Resource files on recent applicants and newly hired employees. Fairly lengthy and dry reading, but after a few minutes of scrolling, I found what I was after. Placido’s résumé was indeed impressive. What caught my eye was under his education, where he listed a substantial amount of training at the Police Academy. Serial killers often found it amusing to either attempt or pretend to be a police officer. That was when they weren’t getting their jollies from slicing up flesh.

 

I read further, intrigued that his parents were both listed as deceased. I made a note to look up their death certificates later that evening, to see whether foul play or Mother Nature had stepped in to prematurely leave Peter Placido an orphan. Nothing else seemed out of place, every t crossed and i dotted. I was half-tempted to dial the phone number listed under how to contact him but decided against it. Instead, I called Barbara.

 

“So much for sleeping,” she said after I told her it was me, “What have you got?”

 

I recounted on how Placido seemed to bear more attention than I had originally thought. She seemed hardly surprised and stifled a yawn before replying, “Interesting. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

 

“Too small. Anything off the audio and video feeds?”

 

“Actually no, the Federal Bunch of Idiots has been hunkered down at GCPD head quarters, most likely driving my father insane as well as everyone else who has handled the case. Except you of course.”

 

I grumbled quietly and she knew better than to comment. After a moment, I asked if she would look up the death certificates quick, my patience to wait until getting out of work had faded completely. It took two minutes of typing before she said, “Ta-dah! Hmm, looks like Mom did herself in when he was eight, shot herself in the face. The Placidos lived out in Rockledge, the mother committed suicide right in front of him... Father remarried, they moved to Gotham, then the father died of cirrhosis and heart disease years later... Not the perfect life for a non-violent, upstanding citizen, if you ask me.”

 

“Almost perfect for a violent one,” I said quietly into the phone.”

 

She agreed and then continued, “Want me to send Cass out to his place, check things out? She’s just wandering around the Clocktower anyway, it would get her out of my hair so I could get some searching done for you.”

 

I deliberated silently before affirming, “She is not to make contact with him, strictly observation.”

 

“That should be fine, she is, after all the strong silent type.” I heard a muffled conversation as she informed Cassandra and the young girl acknowledged and set out. Barbara returned, “Plan on sharing any of this with the local authorities?”

 

“Of course, after I catch him. Not until.”

 

For the rest of the day, I survived lunch with the Mayor and the bunch of meetings I had. Mostly, I was successful at giving off the boredom that coursed my veins. All the while, my mind hummed with activity, processing countless scenarios while totaling four months of data and evidence, or lack there of. At the conclusion of the day, I had already planned out every move for the remainder of the night.

 

First item of business was to confirm the owner to of the car that had been left behind at the scene. And if all went as planned, a trip to the residence of Peter Placido was in order to not only catch up with Batgirl, but to possibly catch a killer as well.

 

^V^