HOME

Peter seeks safety as the walls close in on him.

Residence of Peter Placido, June 30th, 11:21 p.m.

 

“No one home.”

 

I stood beside Batgirl, enclosed in the darkness of a cluster of trees. My binoculars were trained on the house across the street. Well kept, plain, no car in the drive nor in the garage. She had been watching the house for nearly three hours with no sign of life.

 

Oracle had confirmed that the car from the accident had indeed been Placido’s, easing away any remaining uncertainty. And with him missing from his house and two days of work at the bank, I now wondered if he had skipped town. Or if he was on the prowl once more.

 

“Stay here some more?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

 

“No, you can leave. I’ll take a closer look.”

 

Her form straightened and stiffened slightly before turning away to head down the street to her parked cycle. She never did accept defeat well, nor did she handle being told to hand over a case. An admirable trait. Moments after I heard her start the cycle and speed off, I replaced my binoculars and checked for traffic. The neighborhood itself was fairly quiet, most of its inhabitants tucked in for the night. When I was certain that there were no approaching vehicles, I crossed quickly and headed for the garage.

 

The door opened manually and I quietly pulled it up and moved inside. After a pause, I retrieved a flashlight and scanned the area. Stacked storage totes along one wall, a small refrigerator, lawn mower and shelves of car supplies neatly organized. The cement floor was meticulously swept and clear of even the slightest oil stain. The neatness of the scenes had become an extension of his home keeping habits.

 

The door that connected the house to the garage was locked, but took minimal manipulation to open soundlessly. A narrow hall, carpeted in beige, acted as the entrance. To the left, I spotted a tidy laundry room complete with matching washer and dryer. As I traveled down the hall, I noticed that there were no photographs or paintings on the walls. No sign of any effort to make the house a home.

 

A den was placed at the end of the hall, barely furnished with a television, recliner and small sofa. In the far corner, I spotted an old desk, it’s surface bare except for a ceramic jar of pens and a framed photograph of a young woman, giving a small smile to the photographer. I recognized the image instantly as that of Placido’s mother.

 

Further investigation revealed a kept kitchen with the barest of necessities, two bedrooms, again nearly bare given the essentials and a claustrophobic bathroom. As I passed my light over the tub, I noticed a hint of grime at the drain. When I looked closer, I saw the drain had been clogged with what appeared to be dirt. I took a sample, put it up and then went to search the medicine cabinet. Nothing too out of the ordinary: aspirin, athlete’s foot cream, liniment, eye drops and a bottle of antacids. Then again, nothing was too different about this man.

 

Searching the two bedrooms, I quickly found the smaller of the two to be Placidos’s. The closet was half full of tan uniforms, a black police suit, some extraneous slacks and shirts and a several pairs of dress and running shoes in the bottom on a rack. The dresser revealed even less clothing, but something of interest was half-covered by a blue knit sweater.

 

A photo album.

 

Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I opened the album and skimmed the pages. Small, thin child, lots of frowns and fake smiles. I watched as he aged from an awkward toddler to a sullen early elementary age. Then the pictures stopped altogether. I couldn’t help but think back to my own family albums. Pictures of myself much younger and much happier. And then no more smiles. Nothing more to smile about.

 

Finding nothing more, I decided to leave for the time being. Perhaps I could await his return, which was if he was planning on returning home that night. Or ever.

 

I found my way home a little before three, wanting to still search the city, but also lacking any energy to do so. I changed into a robe, put off logging activities and walked up the stairs slowly. Most likely as a response to my bearish disposition of late, I wasn’t surprised to see that Alfred was nowhere in sight in the house. A growl of hunger rumbled through my midsection but my body dragged with the craving of slumber.

 

Eight minutes of traveling up the stairs later, I passed through the doors of my bedroom. I shuffled across the darkened room and nearly collapsed onto the bed. Instead of my face landing on the soft comforter covering the mattress, it collided with the soft comforter covering a pair of shapely legs.

 

I remained motionless as she rolled over and pushed me off of her legs, “Whuh in da... Bruce?”

 

Taking a negative meaning from my lying still, she was up in a flash, reaching out to me, mumbling curses in between asking if I was all right. She pushed me onto my back and I faced a pair of glassy green eyes, heavy with sleep and worry. I had no doubt that I looked horrible. Barely two hours of sleep in three days had brought out dark bags from under my eyes.

 

“Bruce?”

 

“What?” a voice surfaced from my throat, sounding like my voice, but far too exhausted to have possibly been mine.

 

She pushed herself away as I sat up, “Just practicing for a random case of narcolepsy, then?”

 

“Didn’t know you were going to be here.”

 

She reached out and touched my hand softly, “I wasn’t going to come up. But then I couldn’t sleep at home... I figured you’d be having a rough night. Couldn’t sleep thinking about it, god, another girl, left in the woods like that.”

 

I looked away momentarily, trying my best to keep the stone front up. Our time together recently hadn’t been the best. Strained silences instead of peaceful quietness. Not that we had spent that much time together recently. After dealing with the case for so long, the stress of it all, I spoke quietly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“You need to do something Bruce, you look half dead.”

 

“I’m fine,” I replied as I moved to get under the covers.

 

She squeezed my forearm gently, “No.”

 

When I looked at her, my eyes were no longer tired, but focused as a wave of anger surfaced. “No, what?”

 

Selina moved closer, tried to kiss me and I moved away. Already knowing where her intentions were headed, I slipped off of the bed and made a grab for my robe. She rose as well, smoothed out her black cotton dress and stepped close to me, “Bruce, I’m not trying to be pushy here, but you’re not thinking about yourself--.”

 

“I don’t have that luxury,” I growled at her.

 

“Damnit, Bruce, you don’t have to be so combative, all I’m saying is that it wouldn’t kill you to rest up, take care of yourself.”

 

I glared down at her after taking a step closer, putting mere inches between us, “It might not kill me, it would surely kill someone else. That’s... what I have to think about.”

 

She shook her head, and for the first time, I realized she was crying. “Fine. If that’s what you need to do, that’s what you need to do.” She walked passed me, grabbing a coat off of a sitting chair before slipping on a pair of leather sandals.

 

As she reached the door, I called out, “Where are you going?”

 

“Home. I’m just one less thing you have to think about.”

 

I walked after her as she slipped out of the door and into the hall. “Damnit, wait, Selina.” In a few strides, I caught up with her and put my hand on her arm.

 

“No, don’t even,” she snapped as she turned to face me. “And don’t even tell me you haven’t seen this coming. I understand you have other things in your life besides me, even more important things--.” I opened my mouth to interrupt and she continued, “Just listen, for once in your life, just listen. Bruce, I want this to work. What we have is great, you are a great man,” she said as she reached to touch my face, “But I refuse to stand by and watch you do this to yourself. I know you are dedicated to this city and that you take responsibility for what happens. But I don’t want to see it destroy you.”

 

I shook my head and took hold of her hand, “It’s not, Selina. I’ve been doing this for years, I know how to take care of myself.”

 

She bit her lower lip, then leaned in and kissed my cheek, “No you don’t”

 

And then she let go of my hand and walked away.

 

“Selina,” I said, taking a step after her.

 

“Don’t follow me,” she replied while making her way to the stairs.

 

I did anyway, not knowing what else to do, “What do you want me to do, then?”

 

Surprisingly, Selina paused and looked back at me, “Do what you have to, Bruce,” she started down the stairs, “When it’s all over, we’ll go from there.”

 

“Wait,” I said again, not caring if I woke Alfred or even all of Gotham City, “You don’t have to go.”

 

She nodded as she walked away, and when she spoke, her voice was tight and forced, “Yes, I do.”

 

From the top of the main stairwell, I watched her move down the steps hastily, wondering if she would trip as she cried. I wanted to follow her, every fiber of my body was prepared to but my mind said not to. The reason I had been so close to Selina was that she was similar to me. An independent, arrogant, stubborn person who had no intentions of changing her ways.

 

^V^

 

Quality Inn, July 1st, 6:51 a.m.

 

Sans car, he had walked his neighborhood well into the night, circling, looping, retracing his steps until he felt the need to venture further. He was unsure as to why, but he felt that he couldn’t stay at the house any longer. It didn’t seem that far fetched to him, considering he had been under self-proclaimed house arrest for two days.

 

A little before two in the morning, he found himself four miles from home, fast approaching a small hotel set adjacent to an all night diner. He flashed suddenly to Mimi’s, how he longed for Miranda’s company and the Tuesday chicken dinner. Never again, he thought to himself. She took yet another part of my life away.

After checking in for the night, he showered, wrapped his lower half in a towel and sat on the bed, facing the window. How had it come to this? How could he not feel safe in his own house? He knew the second he returned, she would be there, waiting for him. Pushing him. He wasn’t ready for another one. In fact, he thought he had done too much--.

 

Standing, he shook his head and muttered, “Never enough.”

 

No matter what he did, he could never undo the sins committed upon him and his family. He understood that, but he also understood the desire, the need to make sure no other child bore witness to losing his parents to the force of evil.

 

He had slept fitfully, dreams of flying things and thunder keeping him from peace. When he woke a little before dawn, he was covered in a cold sweat as a shiver of terror traveled up his spine. He had not taken his journal with him, making it impossible for him to record the day’s activities.

 

After dressing haphazardly, he checked out and called for a taxi to take him home. The ride was unbearable and the driver reeked of strong coffee and bad cabbage. The second the car stopped, he paid in full, no tip, and stepped out. Within in seconds, he picked up the newspaper, unlocked the door and was inside the very place he had been avoiding..

 

He listened carefully before proceeding into the house. Something still felt off and it brought an unsettling feeling to his stomach. He took a careful search through the entire house and garage, all the while listening for her. He was surprised to finally hear her in his bedroom, “Over here, Peter.”

 

Following the voice lead him to his dresser. The top left drawer was closed completely, of which he had left a fraction open the day before. Upon opening it, nothing looked out of place, but something was off. Not quite as he had left it. Had she done it? Gone through his personal belongings, his pictures? She had never disturbed any of his personal items before, why would she start to?

 

And most of all, why would she tell him about it?

 

Perhaps she had found something unfitting, a picture askew or not in place. He had always done his best to keep things neat and orderly, to make things look nice for her. Whenever he had gone in her room when she was in a bad time, he would make sure to wash his hands and face and to comb his hair. Every so often, she would smile.

 

He changed into a fresh set of clothes, fixed himself toast and sliced fruit and took his breakfast to the desk in the den. After eating quickly, he set the plate aside and pulled out a pen and his latest journal. After writing the date, he drew a complete blank. How could he possibly write down all of his worries and concerns if she was going through his things? She would find them and get angry with him and who knows what she would make him do to redeem himself.

 

Carefully, he set the pen down and closed the book.

 

Perhaps. Perhaps he could do without an entry. For one day at least. It would give him the time to understand why she was snooping about his belongings, and if not, it would give him ample time to find a new place to write his journal...

 

“No!” he snarled suddenly, swinging his arm across the desk surface, sending the journal flying. It caught the edge of the picture of his mother and both slipped onto the floor. He reached for it, missed and watched dumbfounded as it collided with the floor, the glass shattering upon impact. After standing slowly, he stepped over to the mess he had created, glass chips covering the image of his mother. He went to pick the frame up, and sliced the side of his hand on an edge of glass. Droplets of blood formed and a few slipped off of his hand and fell to the picture below.

 

He stared at the bloodied image for a long time, unable to believe what he saw.

 

It wasn’t the soft features of his mother, it wasn’t even past images of her face after she had killed herself.

 

It was the smiling face of the W***e, looking back up at him, laughing.

 

^V^

 

Wayne Manor, July 1st, 9:58 a.m.

 

I had done my best to get back to sleep after Selina had left.

 

When Alfred came into my room a little after seven, he asked where she was and I silenced him with a cold look.

 

While showering, he came in twice, the first time to ask what I wanted for breakfast and the second to ask if I had planned on going into work that day. I ignored him and lathered a washcloth as he harrumphed, “Very well, then, I shall fix you runny scrambled eggs and sell your manison on eBay...”

 

Once dressed, I set out for the Cave, pausing slightly at the top of the stairs before moving down them quickly. All the while pushing aside any images from the night before. After making it to the bottom of the stairs, I heard faint noises coming from down the hall, in the general direction of the kitchen. Even though I had instigated a small war with Alfred, he was still preparing something for breakfast. As much as my body demanded replenishment, I walked by and instead, made my way to the clock.

 

Wanting to get right to work, I skipped my exercises and sat at the computer. It wasn’t a minute after I had logged in that Oracle’s image appeared, “We have a problem, have you seen the news this morning?”

I shook my head, a slight wave of fear settling in my bones, “What?”

 

“Well, Caffery’s super force ended up being a little more ambitious than expected. They’ve been tracing down matching cars since a little after midnight. They’ve publicly announced that Peter Placido is their prime suspect. They matched his DNA with a sample taken years ago when he entered police academy.”

 

“Damn,” I growled. “Why didn’t it come up when we searched?”

 

She shrugged, “They academy wasn’t using computer data banks when he was enlisted, and the old files were never recorded in for back up. They’ve issued for an APB, and he’s down at the court getting the warrant for his arrest.”

 

I rose, and started pacing. There was nothing I could do now. I had missed my chance, perhaps if I had sought him out the night before, been more persistent... With Caffery on the trail, chaos was sure to result. And no matter how many times Placido had bloodied his hands; he didn’t deserve what was coming to him.

 

^V^

 

Residence of Peter Placido, July 1st, 10:21 a.m.

 

“PETER PLACIDO, THIS IS THE FBI!” Caffery screamed.

 

He, as with a dozen other Kevlar-sporting officers, were poised at the front door. Well over fifteen patrol cars, ambulances and SWAT vehicles congested the street. Neighbors, concerned at the activity, had stepped out onto their yards, ignoring the requests of the officers guarding the scene.

 

Caffery nodded slightly and two of the larger officers stepped forwards with the dead weight of a lead beam in order to bust the door in. On the silent count of three, the two men lunged forward. The once solid wood door caved and splintered under the force, giving way to the small entry room. Officers trotted in pairs through the door and began to spread out into the house’s front rooms, guns poised to bring down any attacker.

 

As the officer’s searched the rooms and found them to be safe, they called out “Clear!” loud enough for even those on the outside of the house. Within seconds it was decided that Placido was not present on the property, nor were any other living souls. With the alerted status brought down a notch, the SWAT team was excused so that the investigative forces could enter the house and search for evidence further indicating Placido’s involvement.

 

After assigned pairs of detectives and agents to different parts of the house, Caffery entered the main den of the house and crouched beside the desk, “What do we have here?”

 

With a gloved hand, he prodded about the broken glass and picked up a blood-covered shard. Bagging it, he placed the evidence on the desk and proceeded to recover the dark photograph of a woman. From studying the case file on Placido, a recent addition to his existing paperwork form working the case, he instantly recognized the face of Hannah Jean Placido, the nut job of a mother that killed herself when the suspect had been a first-grader. He bagged it and put it with the glass sample.

 

An agent came down the hall with a large plastic bag, “Found pair of army boots, sir.”

 

Caffery rose and walked over, already pulling out a photocopy of the boot print recovered from the Robinson Park. After holding the boot upside down next to the printed copy, Caffery smiled, “This a*****e is making this too easy.”

 

The agent that had brought the boot, a five-year survivor of the FBI cracked a half-smile, “That he is.”

 

“Agent Caffery! Come take a look at this!” a voice echoed from down a narrow hall. In front, Caffery lead a small group of his agents down the narrow, bare hall, passed a small laundry room and through the door that lead to the garage. Several GC officers and three agents had managed to pull down a few totes that had been neatly stacked in the rear corner of the garage. As the officers pulled off the lids, Caffery whistled to himself at the sight of hundreds of composition notebooks, stacked carefully within the tote.

 

After taking the lids off of a few more of the totes, they stared in disbelief at countless more notebooks, all in chronological order.

 

A tall, pale skinned officer commented, “Must have recorded his whole damn life to fill all of these.”

Caffery selected a notebook, opened it up and read aloud, “‘Today it was more of the same thing. All of them watching me, staring at me as if I were a monster. Dad says its because I’m the new kid, but I think it’s something else. I think they know what I really am.’ Did I say he was making this easy? He’s practically gone hook, line and sinker.” He paused, returned the notebook and announced, “All right, I want these boxes all taken out to the vans, keep them in order, I don’t want anything mixed up on this. Is that clear?”

 

One of his agents nodded, “Crystal.”

 

Upon returning to the house, he made his way back to the den and looked around slowly. This is where the monster lived, this dank dungeon, Caffery thought. This is where he rested after a long night of raping and murdering beautiful women.

 

He looked over the sealed picture, “Hope you’re proud of what you little boy’s done, Mama. He’s sure as s**t going to fry for it.” A scowl came over his face as he stared at the image. In his experiences, it was hard to define what exactly made a killer. Trauma, abuse, hate, fear. Anything these days would piss off the wrong person just enough to push them over the edge.

 

Standing there, on the faded carpet in the middle of the softly must scented room, he wondered what exactly had been done to Peter Placido to push him off of his own precipice. No matter what it was, however, it was not enough to justify taking out his anger on the lives of others. And wherever he was hiding, Caffery smiled, He would be found. He would pay, no matter what.

 

^V^

 

Watchtower, July 1st, 11:01 p.m.

 

“He’s not in the city.”

 

I looked over at Barbara as she sat before a blank screen, a rare occurrence. She eyed me quickly before looking back at her computers. I had arrived a few minutes earlier, unannounced as always. She had been monitoring tracking devices on Robin and Batgirl, who were both working undercover, sifting through the clubs and bars in town. The citywide warning that Placido was still armed and dangerous had considerably dropped the number of patrons and both were finding it difficult to get anything useful accomplished.

 

Thinking about their fruitless work, I looked at Barbara, “I was thinking the same. It’s not safe here.”

 

She nodded and tapped a control on the keyboard. The screen lit up with a map of Gotham City. In white, markers indicated where the victims had been found over the summer. Red showed where Robin and Batgirl had been that night and yellow showed where they had yet to check. The screen looked like a fire that had digitally consumed the city.

 

“Still can’t believe Caffery took over that house. And had it all over the news too. Placido will never come back now. And it’ll be searching for a needle in a haystack, no, a hay field to find him now.”

 

I nodded slightly. When criminals ran, they did so as fast and as far as possible to the safest possible location. Although not the average, Placido was still a criminal, a man on the run. And he definitely needed a safe place to hide. With such a large window of time since his last appearance, he very well could have been anywhere on the East coast, or even out of the country by now.

 

As fast and as far as possible.

 

I flashed back on Selina, nearly running down the stairs the night before. Running away from me because our relationship was no longer safe. I had yet to speak with her, and had nearly called her a dozen times. Each time I managed to pick up the phone, I wouldn’t be able to go through with dialing the number and would simply hang up.

 

She had left for her home.

 

“Randy Robbie checking in,” I heard a voice come over the speakers.

 

Barbara smiled and activated her mic, “How’s the night life?”

 

“Lack there of, you must mean. There wasn’t even a line to get into Romano’s and that place usually has a waiting list well into next week. The city is practically dead.”

 

“Good to hear,” she replied. As she looked back to me, she covered her mic, “What do you want them to do now?”

 

I took a long breath before saying, “They’re finished. Have them suit up, finish patrols.”

 

“Will you be joining them?”

 

I shook my head, “I’m going after Palcido.”

 

She quickly delivered the message to my young protégés and then proceeded to cut the feed, “You know where he is?”  After ignoring her question, she followed me as I made my way to the window, “Bruce, wait, how do you know where he is?”

 

Once the window was opened, I paused before moving through it, “He’s gone to where it’s safe.”

 

“And where would that be?” she looked at me, frustration drawing her eyebrows up.

 

“Home.”

 

“But the police have already staked out his house, there’s no way he’s getting back in.”

I shook my head, “That’s not the place he calls home Barbara. It’s the same place I would call home, the place where he and his parents lived together.”

 

Before she could protest, I stepped out into the darkness and disappeared.

 

^V^