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Miles away, at Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne stood before the television in his study and watched in stunned silence, as the cameras focused on the gory scene happening, live, at the Gotham Courthouse. A long, lurid close-up of the bloodied corpse sprawled on the steps, blood running in a slow, thickish torrent from step to step, to pool in a widening puddle on the sidewalk. Police, weapons drawn, scanned the crowd for a gunman Wayne doubted they’d find.

The shooter wasn’t in the crowd; he could see that much from here. The angle of the gunshot, and the direction Henninger had fallen, had revealed that, conclusively. On the screen, Gordon dashed down the steps, shouting orders, and futilely waving the cameras away. The assembled crowd had long since stampeded.

He wondered at the mix of his emotions. Henninger had deserved it, certainly, but had justice been served? Not "rule of law" justice, the one to which Batman had sworn his mission, no. Certainly not. "Karmic justice"--ultimate justice--however, had definitely been satisfied.

Wayne warred within himself. Would justice have been served, if the psychopath had been set free to claim more victims, as he most certainly would? It was strange, and frustrating, really, how very often the guilty went free in the name of "justice". But that was the nature of the system, wasn’t it?

The killer had been clever; almost too clever even, for the Batman. The evidence had not been strong enough. Henninger would most likely have been acquitted. Nonetheless, the trial—the trial for which he had struggled mightily to amass such evidence as he could—had been circumvented. Therefore, there were indeed things to be discussed.

He would see Gordon, tonight…..

Chapter 2:

In his darkened office, Police Commissioner James Gordon sat at his desk, filling out some paperwork. As he worked, only the narrow circle of light from the desk lamp illuminated the room. He was filling out and signing a handful of reprimands and discommendations for several officers whom, he knew, didn’t really deserve it. The Mayor was in an understandable lather, however, over the Henninger case, and was demanding a few other heads, besides his, Gordon’s, own. These were just for show; Gordon would make sure that none of these reprimands ever actually found their way into the files of the men, themselves. The Mayor would know no different. He was unpopular, anyway, and was likely to be out, next election, barring any overt voter fraud.

His cell phone buzzed softly and he dropped his pen, slightly grateful for the interruption, and took up the phone.

A text; no name; no actual number--only ten zeros--and a message: "Rooftop. 9p."

Gordon sat back as he read the message. He knew who that was. He glanced at the clock on his desk. 8:26.

Some years back, out of curiosity, he had tried to have a trace run on the messages. He hadn’t expected to come up gold, and he wasn’t disappointed. The number led to a dead line, and triangulation was rendered almost impossible, by the mere fact that the signal was bounced around to multiple cell towers around the country, seeming to come from any one of them. Sometime later, Batman, with an amused tone, had asked him why he’d run the trace. He’d known. Gordon didn’t know how Batman did it, kept his secrets so skillfully, but he did.

Half an hour later, Gordon was on the roof of the GCPD, standing beside the dark Batsignal. The snow was falling steadily.

"Jim;" came a voice out of the dimness, and Batman was there. Gordon whirled, startled, and put a hand to his chest. He stood like a dark wraith, his cape drawn forward over his shoulders, against the chill. He stood a good head taller than Gordon. His boots crunched in the snow.

"How the hell do you always do that?" Gordon asked, annoyed.

Batman said nothing, and the Commissioner somehow got the feeling that this wasn’t a time for playful banter.

"What happened this morning?" Batman asked flatly. "There weren’t nearly enough police at the site."

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