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Arkham Hate	By : drowsteel Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 3914 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Author's Note: This is the investigation that follows, and has no sex in it.

“It’s a break in his pattern,” Frank said, looking at the blood caked on the walls, spread out over as wide an area as possible.

“Well, no kiddin’,” Bullock replied. “Guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

Frank ignored him. He was used to skepticism. “Do we know how he got into her apartment?”

“We figure she helped him escape,” Bullock said, looking in his notebook. “There was a different guard a couple days ago got suckered into gettin’ in the cell with Harley Quinn and didn’t end up too pretty. Figure Zsasz pulled somethin’ like it, if she got him the weapons he used in his escape, then he rode home after hiding in her car trunk.”

“I don’t think so,” Frank looked at the evidence markers on the closet. “The guard with Harlene Quinnzel was known for lacking in safety procedures. Nguyen wasn’t. Her partner said that she was always reluctant to go at any potential hazard unarmed.”

“So she fell in love,” Bullock shrugged. “She thought he wouldn’t hurt her.”

“She wasn’t the one who was in love.”

Frank peered into the closet, where all the knives in the apartment were hidden, along with Kim Nguyen’s service weapon.

“Zsasz removed her possible ways of arming herself,” Frank said, then looked back at Bullock. “It doesn’t fit with his past M.O.”

“Say what?!” Bullock frowned. “This clown kills helpless people all the time! That’s all he friggin’ DOES!”

Frank nodded. “He has no problem with killing helpless people. He also has no problem with killing dangerous people. In the past, he’s killed armed police officers without disarming them, or even bothering to take their weapons to deal with future threats. In this case, he tried to make sure that Officer Nguyen couldn’t fight back.”

Bullock digested the idea. “So what?” he said after careful consideration.

“He didn’t want violence,” Frank said.

Looking at the gore that surrounded them, Bullock smirked humorlessly. “Guess that didn’t work, huh?”

“He ended up with violence,” Frank said, “but I think it was as a compulsion, not a planned action. After he killed her, he felt enraged. Ashamed of himself. This,” he gestured at the room, “is the result of that feeling.”

Bullock looked a little bit surprised. “Maybe you got something there, Frank.”

“Thanks, Gebelhouse,” Frank replied absently.

“It’s Bullock.”

“Sorry,” Frank shook his head to clear it. “You just remind me of someone I know.”

Bullock cocked his head. “So you profile all these high-profile type killers?”

“They aren’t all high profile,” Frank answered. “Many of the cases I’ve consulted for never even made the papers.”

“So what about the Joker?” Bullock pressed.

“No,” Frank replied. “I don’t think anyone has successfully profiled him, though a few people have devoted their careers to it.”

“Yeah?” Bullock thought for a second. “How about Batman?”

“He’s not a killer,” Frank pointed out.

“Yeah,” Bullock said, “but what if he were? What profile would you give him?”

“White male in his mid 30’s,” Frank answered without hesitation. “High IQ and athletic ability. Traumatic past experience when he was very young. Possibly the murder of a close relative. He limits his personal relationships, but will be intensely loyal to the few people in his life. He probably has numerous casual acquaintances who regard him as distant or unreliable, since he constantly changes stories and cancels appointments. There will be some overlap in his personal and secret lives, meeting a few of the same people in either identity.

After a pause, Frank added “he feels personally responsible for the criminals in this city and may believe that he created their criminal natures.”

Bullock stared. “Jeez, that it?” he asked sarcastically. “You don’t know what he had for breakfast or anything?”

“Toast,” Frank said flatly. “Likely with tea and vitamin supplements. He can’t eat heavily in the mornings but would have heavy lunches and multiple meals throughout the day.”

Bullock whistled.

“How good is this guy?” Montoya asked Bullock. The two of them were gathered, along with thirty other officers in the Major Crimes Unit briefing room.

“I think he’s friggin’ Batman,” Bullock said.

Montoya raised an eyebrow.

Frank Black took his place at the podium.

“It’s now been three days since the escape of Victor Zsasz,” Frank began. “He has claimed at least one victim in that time, and it is my belief that if he will remain dormant for a short time longer before returning to a pattern of homicide, making his rapid apprehension imperative for all of us.”

Frank pushed a button on his Power Point remote, bringing up a projected picture of Officer Kim Nguyen.

“Kim Nguyen,” Frank said. “She was one of a pair of guards specially sought out by Arkham Asylum for handling Victor Zsasz, in the hopes that their hand to hand combat skills would make them better able to handle violent outbursts.”

“During his imprisonment,” Frank continued, “Zsasz developed a particular fixation on Officer Nguyen. After his escape, he followed her to her apartment and murdered her.”

Frank changed the image to that of Kim’s apartment, her blood covering nearly every inch of floor and walls. Many of the officers winced, a few chuckled and joked.

“This is all that was left of the murdered officer,” Frank said. He looked at a few of the cops who’d laughed, and they avoided his eyes. “Her murder is significant because of the way he destroyed her body.”

Frank clicked to the next image, that of corpses sitting in a living room. A man and woman were positioned on the couch, facing the television. A small boy’s body sat on the floor, his hand on a toy truck.

“Zsasz’s normal method is to set his victim’s bodies as though they were still alive,” Frank said. “He does this because it’s the way he sees the world.”

Montoya lifted her hand. “As what, exactly?”

“As a world of living dead,” Frank answered, looking at Montoya. “Victor Zsasz believes that all people are suffocated by the lies that comfort them, and that death is a way of waking them from a kind of trance.”

“But he doesn’t believe in an afterlife,” Montoya protested. She’d had an interest in Zsasz ever since he’d taken her hostage during Bane’s attack on Arkham. “How can he believe that he’s helping them?”

“He doesn’t.” Frank was completely grim. “He believes that people choose their fate as zombies, and that waking them is the fate they deserve. He sees himself as a kind of vengeful god, delivering punishment rather than salvation.”

Bullock and Montoya shared a glance. “See?” Bullock said.

“The fact that Kim Nguyen’s body wasn’t placed in a still-living position suggests that Zsasz didn’t see her as a zombie,” Frank went back to his profile. “He felt so ashamed by her murder that he had to totally obliterate her body. The act is likely to still disturb him, and will likely prevent him from taking violent actions, at least for a short time. He will try to make contact with people, especially women, while he tries to come to grips with his new experience.”

“When you say ‘violent actions’, what exactly do you mean?” One detective asked.

“It means he won’t kill unprovoked,” Frank replied. “He will kill to avoid being captured.”

Another detective spoke up. “He didn’t set up Monster’s body like it was still living,” he said. “Is that another break in the M.O.?”

Frank shook his head, and changed the Power Point to a picture of Merton Aldritch’s corpse. “That was a murder committed out of anger. When Zsasz killed Merton Aldritch, it wasn’t because he considered him a zombie, it was because Aldritch had a history of being insulting. As such, Zsasz didn’t feel the compulsion to keep his body intact.”

In the quiet that followed, Frank said “If there are no further questions, I will refer you to detectives Bullock and Montoya, who are heading up the investigation.”

The Zsasz investigation was in its eighth day. No new murders.

Frank had visited Gotham City before. A few of his early FBI cases had been in the city, back before there was a Batman, or Joker, Two-Face, or any of the other of the horde of famous loonies that now filled Arkham. It was bad when Frank had first visited, and was so much worse now.

“So you like Gotham?” Bullock asked.

“It’s got its charm,” Frank said.

“Damn straight,” Bullock replied. “It might not have the tourist trade that Metropolis has, but it’s a city with guts, ya know?”

Frank flashed back to Kim’s apartment. “Yeah,” was all he said.

“Plus, what kind of psychos do they have in Metropolis? Well, I guess you’d know.” A pause. “I’m gonna get another sandwich at this place down the street,” Bullock said. “You OK?”

“I’m fine.”

Bullock got out of the car and walked.

Frank scanned the street. They were in a nicer neighborhood, the type Frank believed Zsasz would try to frequent. He made a point to look closely at everyone in long sleeves. It was late at night, and that meant most people were covered up.

“I’ve been following your profile,” came a deep voice from the back seat.

Frank jumped. He felt certain that Zsasz had somehow found him.

The truth was stranger. Batman was in the backseat.

“Uh...” Frank’s thoughts were jumbled.

“How long do we have before Zsasz kills again?” Batman was only a silhouette in the rearview mirror. Frank didn’t want to turn his head.

“I don’t know,” Frank answered. “It depends on who he’s interacting with. The possibility even exists that he won’t ever kill again, that crossing his own emotional boundary will be the end.”

A pause. “Do you think that’s true?”

“It’s not impossible,” Frank said. “But more likely he’ll begin again in a matter of weeks with a slightly changed pattern. If he does begin again...”

“He’d be more violent,” Batman finished. Frank nodded.

“Are you following the investigation as well as my profile?” Frank asked.

“Closely,” Batman answered.

The driver’s side door opened and Bullock got back in, holding a cheese steak sandwich. “These are the best.”

Frank looked back. The back seat was empty.

Day twenty of the investigation. No new murders.

“Mr. Black?” Montoya was holding a notepad.

“What’s going on, Montoya?”

“I took a call from a young lady that claims to have sighted Zsasz at a used bookstore,” Montoya said. “Nice neighborhood, like your profile said.”

“Is he still there?” Frank grabbed his coat.

“No,” Montoya had a frustrated expression. “She said she saw him a couple of hours ago. The witness is still there, waiting to be interviewed.”

“Great,” Frank said. “It would be a good idea to look at the store, also.”

The witness was very pretty. A young black lady wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt that had a picture of cartoon characters on it. Her name was Lacy.

“At what time exactly did you see Zsasz?” Montoya asked, taking notes. Frank looked around him, taking in the store’s atmosphere.

“It was close to twelve thirty,” Lacy answered. “I don’t know how long he’d been here, though. He looked like he’d just stopped in because he was carrying a grocery bag.”

“Could you tell which grocery store it was from?” Montoya asked.

“Right there,” Lacy pointed to a small corner store right across from the bookstore.

Montoya made notes. “And he approached you?”

“Yeah,” Lacy nodded. “I didn’t really recognize him, but I thought he looked familiar. I asked if he was famous, and he laughed. He said he was known in certain circles.”

“How long did you talk for?” Montoya scribbled furiously.

“Ten minutes,” Lacy shrugged. “He seemed like he wanted to talk longer, but he said he had to get his groceries home. I almost went with him.”

Lacy shivered. “And he probably would have killed me.”

“You had a close call,” Montoya agreed. “Good thing you decided to be cautious.”

Montoya looked at Frank, who was still looking around the store. Without looking back, he said “Zsasz approached you here,” he pointed at a corner of the store.”

“Yeah,” Lacy looked surprised. “How could you tell?”

“You had nothing in your hands when he approached you,” Frank continued. “No books or purse?”

“Right,” Lacy answered. Looking at Montoya, she whispered “what’s he doing?”

Montoya shrugged helplessly.

“He talked to you about Frankenstein,” Frank added.

“Holy crap,” Lacy’s face was a mask of shock. “What the fuck are you? Psychic Cop?”

Frank looked a little embarrassed. “No,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Hell no,” Lacy said. “I want to know how you knew that!”

Frank walked back over to the ladies.

“Victor Zsasz came in here before you did,” he explained. “He was hoping for contact with someone, but he also reads avidly. He was in that section,” Frank pointed at the area he’d identified, “where he picked up an edition of Mary Shelly’s Fankenstein...”

“How do you know which book it was?” Montoya interrupted.

“He brushed the dust off of it,” Frank said. “He treated the cover with care, and it’s the most recently dusted book on that shelf. It had significance to him, probably identifying with the monster at this point in his life, whereas at other times he might identify with the creator.”

Frank cleared his throat, trying to wrap up. “When he was unable to find someone to contact, Zsasz left, doing shopping at that store. He didn’t intend to come back, but when he saw you in the section he’d been in before, he decided to come in and make contact with you, hoping to learn about himself. That’s it.”

“Wow,” Lacy’s eyes were wide. “Are you Batman?”

Montoya laughed. Frank smiled awkwardly.

“Zsasz lives nearby,” Frank told Montoya as they left the bookstore. “He’s staying with someone, either a very old person or an invalid. He’s acting as a caretaker for this person, using the cover as a means to make contact with the outside world. He’s likely to frequent other areas in this neighborhood, but only for short times. He’ll spend most of his time at home.”

Montoya looked at him. “What else do you know, and how do you know it?”

Frank smiled softly. “I used to teach in Quantico,” he said, then pointed back at the bookstore. “What does the bookstore tell you? Why did he come here?”

Montoya looked at it, hoping to impress Frank. “It’s close to his home...” she began, building off of what Frank had already said. “...it’s isolated...um...not many windows...”

Frank nodded. “All true,” he said. “And from a tactical standpoint, they all make sense. But why was Zsasz going in there?”

“Looking for victims,” Montoya answered.

Frank stopped her. “Not victims,” he corrected. “Not right now.”

“He’s looking for human contact,” Montoya said, the idea setting in on her.

Frank nodded again. “Now look again. Why that store, not Barnes and Noble?”

Montoya took another look. “It looks like a place where serious readers go,” she said. “You couldn’t find any comic books or magazines, or really many bestsellers...” she trailed off.

“And how about the woman he focused on?” Frank prompted.

Montoya pictured Lacy. “Kind of a college type...” she said. “...she seemed liberal, probably questioning authority...”

Frank snapped his fingers. “Exactly.” He smiled. “I believe that’s the prime reason that Zsasz chose her. Right now he’s questioning himself and his reasons, and he wants to contact people who do the same. The fact that she was attractive and black probably also prompted his choice.”

Montoya blinked. “You think that her being African-American meant something to him?”

“Well, in a sense,” Frank said. “The specific ethnicity didn’t matter, but Zsasz probably would have taken it as a further sign of her being an outsider.”

“He’s looking for outsiders,” Montoya chewed that over. “Do you think he’d see me that way?”

“No,” Frank answered without needing to think. “That cross you wear immediately disqualifies you. Zsasz regards religion as the single most important factor for the living dead. Also, your clothing is very commonplace and suggests that you’re hard-working and blue collar, which Zsasz would think of as a sign that you don’t question authority or think philosophically.”

“Thanks,” Montoya was full of sarcasm.

“HE thinks,” Frank emphasized.

Zsasz investigation day twenty-one. No new murders.

The Major Crimes Unit was now focused on areas close to the used book store where Zsasz had been sighted. Patrols were increased, and street cops were told to be on the lookout for a blond man in long sleeves, but not to approach him. If the MCU could determine his hideout, that would be the next step.

“You know, Frank,” Bullock said. “I think we’re going to get this guy.”

Zsasz investigation day twenty-six. No new murders.

“He’s friggin’ gone,” Bullock growled. “He ain’t in the area now, he moved on.”

“He’s still here,” Frank insisted. “He isn’t going to leave until he starts his pattern again.”

“You sure?”

Frank didn’t answer. He hoped so.

“’Cause if you ain’t sure, and he starts killing again downtown, it’s on you. We’re going on your recommendations here, big shot.” Bullock was staring hard at Frank.

Hesitation.

“He’s still here,” Frank said finally.

There was no sighting. Frank and Bullock parted on bad terms at the end of the day, with Bullock just about accusing Frank of being responsible for all of Zsasz’s future victims.

Bullock had gone home in a huff, and Frank had taken a walk to clear his head. He wanted out of Gotham. The city had a way of suffocating you, trapping you in the atmosphere of corruption that hovered over it.

The cool night air was bracing. It helped Frank put his conversation with Bullock behind him. Frank walked through one of the parks which the city upkept as urban beautification. It felt like everything else did: dark and dangerous.

Frank sat on a bench and breathed. Bullock was a good cop, but he was a real asshole. Probably had a hard time in his personal life. Like Gebelhouse.

Taking out his cell phone, Frank dialed his home number then canceled it. He didn’t want to wake his daughter so late. He’d call in the morning.

The girls in the park were older than Jordan. He supposed the ones his daughter’s age were home, where it was less likely that random violence would strike. Or muggers.

“Speaking of muggers,” Frank stood up as he spotted a man dressed all in black sneaking up behind a young lady, dressed in black and purple with bright, cherry red hair.

In a burst of movement, the man slammed hard into the girl and grabbed her purse, simultaneously disabling his mark and making off with her money. The man was five feet, ten inches caucasian with shaved head black shirt with brown shirt underneath sunken cheeks sign of malnutrition sunken eyes as well sign of drug use...

“HEY!” Frank shouted and started after the mugger, but didn’t catch up to him.

Instead, the robber ran right into Victor Zsasz.

“Into” wasn’t the right word. Zsasz had been standing just off the side of the path out of the park, but when the mugging took place, Zsasz stepped in and shot his hand around the thief’s arm.

The mugger howled in pain as Zsasz gouged his muscle apart with his fingers. The skinny man flailed around in horrible pain, completely unable to even sway his stoic attacker.

With his free hand, Zsasz plucked the purse from his target’s grip before releasing him. The thief streaked off into the night as Zsasz strolled over and helped the girl with the cherry-colored hair to her feet and reassured her.

Frank was already dialing his cell phone again, this time Bullock’s cell phone. It went to voicemail.

“Bullock!” Frank was whispering. “Zsasz is in the Softway Galley Park! I can see him right now!”

Frank ended the call and dialed Montoya.

Zsasz was talking to the young lady, easing her to a bench even closer to where Frank was. Frank turned away, trying to hide his face and phone.

“Montoya.” The voice came through.

“It’s Frank. I need help. Zsasz is in Softway Galley Park,” still in a whisper.

Montoya started shouting to people around her. “Don’t approach him, Frank,” she said into the phone.

“Right,” Frank glanced at Zsasz, who was now walking out of the park, young lady in tow.

“He’s leaving,” Frank said. “Heading onto Softway Galley Street, female subject with him.” Frank followed slowly.

“Shit!” Montoya cursed. “Frank, I need you to follow him until a uniform can get eyes-on.”

“Okay,” Frank agreed, already rounding the corner onto the street.

Zsasz was looking back at him.

The piercing blue eyes which were often hidden in darkness were clearly visible, burning into Frank from a distance.

“He sees me,” Frank said. He was frozen to the spot, staring at the killer as the killer stared back at him.

“Are you sure?” Montoya had a lot of background noise as she tried to coordinate her officers and talk to Frank at the same time.

“Yeah,” Frank said dumbly. “He knows I was following him.”

Zsasz whispered a last word of reassurance to his companion, and eased her to keep walking. He turned toward Frank and started closing the distance.

“I’ve gotta go,” Frank said to Montoya. He switched his phone to “LISTEN” and put it in his pocket.

“Evening,” Frank said as Zsasz stepped close to him.

“Evening,” Zsasz replied pleasantly. He was dressed in long sleeves which hid his scars. In the darkness, his face seemed to grasp and hold shadows. “I’ve seen you on the news.”

“And you,” Frank nodded.

“You’re supposed to be a hunter,” Zsasz prompted.

“I don’t think of myself that way,” Frank said.

Zsasz cocked his head and regarded Frank. “What are you, then?”

“I’m a consultant,” Frank said, hoping he could stall Zsasz and also survive. “That’s all.”

“So you know everything about me,” Zsasz challenged.

“No,” Frank said. “I know a lot that I’ve read. I’ve come up with ideas about you, but all I can do is theorize.”

“Then theorize,” Zsasz smirked. “Tell me why I escaped.”

“Kim Nguyen,” Frank was sweating in the cold.

Zsasz’s smirk vanished like a dynamited wall. “Go on,” he said.

Frank swallowed hard. “You knew that you couldn’t be close to her while you were incarcerated. You had to make your positions equal before you could become intimate with her.”

“Intimate,” Zsasz repeated.

Slowly, Zsasz sat down on the curb. “Where did I go wrong, Frank?” He asked, not looking at anything.

“You killed until it became a compulsion,” Frank said softly.

“That’s right,” Zsasz looked up at him. “That’s exactly what it was.” He sighed and stood up. “Come on, Frank,” he said, returning to the park. “I won’t run from you.”

Heart racing, Frank followed. The both of them sat at the same bench Frank had started at. Patrol cars began to line the streets. A shadowy shape moved in the darkness, a cape and cowl swirling around him.

“Compulsion,” Zsasz said again. “I couldn’t stop, Frank. I didn’t want to kill her.”

Frank nodded. “I know,” he said. “It wasn’t supposed to be that way.”

“I feel like crying,” Zsasz said. “That’s the thing, though. I suppose it’s part of my pathology that I can’t, isn’t it?”

“It fits,” Frank answered. “I don’t know if the pathology is the end of it.”

Zsasz smiled. “Do you believe in God, Frank?”

“No,” Frank said solemnly.

“Then you don’t have any delusions about being saved,” Zsasz said. “You know that we’re all just dead walking.”

“I don’t see things the way you do,” Frank said. “I think that all we have is a life to develop. All we can do is touch the lives of others.”

Zsasz clutched his eyes, and tears fell.

Frank took a set of handcuffs from his pocket. Zsasz offered no resistance as Frank placed them on his wrists.

“Why did I get out in the first place?” Zsasz asked, his voice lower than it had been in years. “It all fell apart. I don’t know what to believe, now.”

“None of us do,” Frank said, waving the uniformed patrolmen over. “When you don’t have God or when you do, there’s never a certainty to the paths we choose.”

Zsasz wordlessly allowed the officers to take him in to custody.

“I guess you want to take all the credit, huh Batman?” Bullock jutted his chin out at Frank as he spoke.

“I’d like it if everyone would stop calling me Batman,” Frank leaned away.

“Batman!” Montoya laughed. Several other detectives from the MCU joined in.

“Batman! Batman! Batman!”

They clapped, cheering Frank. After a reluctant pause, Bullock joined them.

“Yeah, honey,” Frank said into his cell phone.

“A lot of the guys at school want your autograph,” Jordan said happily. “You ought to drop me off to class sometime.”

“I don’t go near high schools,” Frank chuckled. “Too dangerous.”

“I miss you,” Jordan said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I miss you too,” Frank said. “My plane leaves in three hours.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

Frank got out of his cab and paid the driver, standing at the terminal for Gotham International Airport. He felt a little better about the city, now that he was leaving it.

“How did you know?” Came a familiar, gravely voice from the shadows.

Frank didn’t jump. He smiled, not surprised.

“Which part?” He asked.

“What I have for breakfast,” Batman clarified.

“All I do is guess,” Frank said. “I’ve just been doing it for a little longer than you. Say, did you know that the Major Crimes Unit started calling me Batman?”

“That’s funny,” Batman replied as he vanished into the night. “They started calling me Frank.”
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Arkham Hate