Gordon's Confusion

In the settings of Pokémon anime and games, Pikachu is far from being a powerful Pokémon. Its popularity stems more from its cute appearance.

Whether in the anime or the games, Pikachu is the absolute mascot, but its actual combat ability is mediocre. Especially in the games, it could even be called a benchwarmer. Compared to those powerful and flashy legendary Pokémon, Pikachu is indeed adorable, but that's its only advantage.

But the Pikachu Schiller encountered was far from that simple. It had intelligence comparable to, or even higher than, most humans, possessed Pikachu's Electric-type moves, and seemed to have some other tricks up its sleeve.

It was immune to Schiller's telepathy, and the fear gas only made it stumble. In terms of volume, the dose of fear gas Schiller used for his traps that day was enough to drive a small creature like Pikachu insane, but Pikachu just sneezed a few more times.

And it could pick his door lock while he was sleeping and climb onto his bed. For a Pikachu of its height, it couldn't even reach the doorknob by jumping. To pick the lock, it would at least need to drag a chair over.

How this round, chubby creature, shorter than a human's calf with very short arms, managed to drag a chair in the middle of the night, jump onto it, pick the lock, open the door, and sneak up next to Schiller without being noticed—no one knows.

But this Pikachu was clearly much more cunning than Schiller had imagined. More importantly, hearing its Deadpool-like voice, Schiller just couldn't be as serious with it as he was with Batman. Without looking at Pikachu's face, he always felt like someone in a black-and-red skintight suit was chattering beside him—a scene that sent chills down his spine.

However, Schiller soon had no time to worry about Pikachu. Gordon sent him a text notifying him that they had gathered solid evidence of Jonathan's crimes and were about to arrest him.

The arrest of Jonathan had nothing to do with Schiller. What he was more worried about was that he'd never get fear gas supplies again, so he had to hurry and take all the stock from Jonathan's place.

Jonathan, the future Scarecrow, was really unlucky.

When Schiller learned Jonathan was about to be caught, he took as much as Jonathan made. The young Scarecrow had no counter-surveillance awareness yet, and he was utterly baffled—who the hell kept stealing his fear gas?

With his teleportation ability, stealing fear gas became even easier. He just needed to get about a hundred meters from the small church in Morsen District, flash-step continuously into the church basement, grab everything, and leave immediately, leaving not even a shadow behind.

Batman was naturally involved in this operation. With his superb infiltration skills, he returned to the lab and found that Jonathan had already built a Fear Gas Spray Gun. He suggested Gordon let him handle Jonathan's capture; otherwise, the gas gun could drive all the police involved and the residents of Morsen District insane.

Although Gordon didn't fully trust this skintight weirdo, he had his own troubles.

The Gotham Police Department was full of talented people—aside from him, they were all lazy deadbeats who showed up last at every scene, useless for anything.

The combat capability of such a team didn't need much thought. One gas gun could take down half the police station.

And he couldn't expect any help from his superiors. Gordon had long seen through it—the current director was cozying up with certain underworld forces. Why would he want more trouble? A few dozen dead civilians were nothing compared to his money-making schemes.

Gordon was helpless and powerless. So the only person he could count on was Batman.

Although Batman was immature now, Scarecrow wasn't much better. They were like two rookies pecking at each other, and in the end, Batman won.

While Jonathan was doing experiments in the lab, Batman subdued him with an anesthetic needle.

And the camera on his Batsuit clearly recorded how Jonathan committed his crimes.

Faced with such an ironclad case, the powerless Gordon was pushed aside. His direct superior took over the case, quickly filed it, and brought it to trial—at least it counted as a decent achievement.

A university professor masterminding dozens of murders? In any other region, this would be a bizarre headline-grabbing case for days. But in Gotham, though still a significant case, it only occupied a single column on the front page.

Seeing that the newspaper didn't mention Gordon or Batman's names, but was filled with praise for Gordon's superior, Schiller knew this dark city had gained another frustrated, heartbroken man.

Gordon, that good cop, still had a long road ahead.

To Schiller's surprise, Gordon came to him quickly.

In the Psychological Counseling Room at Gotham University, Schiller poured Gordon a cup of coffee. This still-young detective looked exhausted. He took a sip of hot coffee, and his complexion improved a bit.

He said, "I know my visit is presumptuous, Professor. But regarding Jonathan's case..."

Gordon seemed hesitant. Schiller said, "Let me guess. The trial went smoothly, but something went wrong at the sentencing stage, right?"

Gordon clenched his fists on the table, his face dark. "That damn murderer is a Chemical Doctor. You should know what that means in Gotham. Some people don't want him sentenced to death. They want to use insanity as a defense to get him off and then make him work for them."

Schiller sat across from him and said, "Indeed. A genius Chemical Doctor—if he could produce even one new type of hallucinogenic drug, the people hiring him would make a fortune."

Gordon shook his head. "It's far more than that. The drugs they want Jonathan to develop might be even more dangerous."

"If they just make drugs, they'd only make small money from addicts. But if they really create a virus that could control all of Gotham, the wealth they'd gain goes without saying," Gordon said.

"Did someone leak information about the fear gas?" Schiller asked. The gas's outstanding effects were why certain people recognized Jonathan's value.

Gordon looked at him, hesitated, and said, "No offense, but I want to confirm—have you seen any suspicious people recently?"

"I can tell you clearly, I haven't told anyone about this. It wouldn't benefit me either. As a university professor, having a murderer as a colleague is already disgraceful. Any further connection would seriously harm my career," Schiller said.

"Then..." Gordon clasped his hands together. "That night, I heard you call that skintight weirdo Bruce. Is he Bruce Wayne?"

"I can't tell you anything about that. You should ask him yourself, not come to me."

"I know what you're worried about," Schiller said. "As Gotham's biggest business tycoon, Bruce Wayne isn't necessarily uninvolved in those dirty deals. And if he finds out you're investigating this, you'll die badly. That's what you're thinking, right?"

Gordon said, "Jonathan stated in his testimony that someone had been stealing most of his fear gas. That skintight weirdo is my prime suspect—he's too suspicious."

Schiller sighed inwardly. The content that never appeared in the comics was quite interesting now. Gordon and Batman, that old duo, didn't trust each other from the start. Gordon was even deeply suspicious of this bizarre vigilante.

That wasn't strange. No normal person would immediately accept someone running around Gotham in the dead of night wearing a black skintight suit with two pointy ears. Such behavior didn't exactly scream "good guy."

Schiller said, "Have you considered that he might suspect you just as much?"

Gordon sighed. "Actually, he has more reason to suspect me. If he really is Bruce Wayne, I know the Wayne kid never gave up investigating that old case. The deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne were very suspicious. I once looked over the case files—too many things were off. If Little Wayne is Batman, then of course he wouldn't trust any cop, including me."

"The Gotham police..." Gordon said with some emotion. "I know the cops in this city are just decorations, useless for anything." He looked dejected, sighed, took a sip of coffee, and fell silent.

Schiller said, "As a rock in a mud pit, you're already hard enough. You can't expect someone to fish you out. Better to roll yourself bigger. When you fill the whole pit, it'll be no different from a paved road."

"Is that what you think? Do you think I should keep going down this path?" Gordon seemed lost.

No wonder he was so depressed. After all the risk and effort he'd put into solving the case, having his credit stolen was one thing—Gordon only wanted justice anyway. But now, for profit, people were letting a murderer of dozens of civilians go free. That was a heavy blow to Gordon.

Schiller smiled. "Detective Gordon, it seems you need a psychological consultation. Luckily, I happen to be a psychologist, and I don't charge."

Gordon forced a smile. "I've seen your resume in the files, Professor Schiller. Having a renowned psychologist like you treat me—I'll take it as my year-end bonus. Either way, thank you."

Schiller said, "You're welcome. It's my honor to help a good cop of Gotham."

Gordon's smile grew more strained. He said, almost sighing, "A good cop? Maybe..."