Gordon's Confusion

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

Whether in the anime or the games, Pikachu was the undisputed mascot of cuteness. Its actual combat ability was fairly average. Especially in the games, it could even be called a storage-box regular. Compared with those powerful and dazzling legendary Pokémon, Pikachu really was cute—but cuteness was its only advantage.

But the Pikachu Schiller had encountered was far more than that. It possessed intelligence comparable to a human's, perhaps even greater than most humans', along with Pikachu's Electric-type moves and seemingly some other abilities.

It was immune to Schiller's telepathy, and the Fear Gas had merely made it stumble. Judging by its size, the amount of Fear Gas Schiller had used to set the trap that day should have been enough to drive a small creature like Pikachu mad, yet Pikachu had only sneezed a few more times.

And while Schiller was asleep, it had managed to pick his lock and climb onto his bed. Given Pikachu's height, it could not even reach the doorknob by jumping. To pick the lock, it would at least have needed to drag a chair over.

How this round creature, barely taller than a person's calf and with such short arms, had carried a chair in the middle of the night, climbed onto it, picked the lock, opened the door, and then run over to Schiller without waking him was something no one could explain.

Still, this Pikachu was clearly much craftier than Schiller had imagined. More importantly, hearing that Deadpool-like voice made it impossible for him to treat Pikachu with the same seriousness he used for Batman. Without looking at Pikachu's face, he always felt as though someone in a black-and-red bodysuit was chattering beside him. The image sent a chill down his spine.

Before long, though, Schiller had no time to worry about Pikachu. Gordon sent him a message saying they had obtained conclusive evidence of Jonathan's crimes and were about to arrest him.

Schiller had nothing to do with Jonathan's arrest. What worried him was that no one might supply him with Fear Gas again afterward, so he needed to hurry and take Jonathan's remaining stock.

Jonathan, the future Scarecrow, really was unlucky.

Once he learned Jonathan was about to be arrested, Schiller took as much as Jonathan made. The young Scarecrow had no real counter-surveillance awareness yet, and he was practically falling apart. Who the hell kept stealing his Fear Gas?

After gaining the ability to teleport, stealing Fear Gas became even easier for Schiller. He only needed to blink repeatedly from a point over a hundred meters from the small church in Morsen District, enter the underground chamber directly, take what he needed, and leave at once without leaving even a shadow behind.

Batman naturally took part in the arrest operation as well. With his exceptional infiltration skills, he returned to the laboratory and discovered that Jonathan had already made a Fear Gas Spray Gun. He suggested that he be the one to apprehend Jonathan; otherwise, that gas spray gun might drive every officer involved in the operation, along with the residents of Morsen District, insane.

Though Gordon did not entirely trust the bodysuited freak, he had his own difficulties.

The Gotham Police Department was full of talent—aside from him, they were basically all permanent slackers. Whenever something happened, they arrived last at the scene, and there was never any point relying on them.

There was no need to think about the combat effectiveness of a team like that. One gas spray gun would be enough to take down half the Police Department.

And there was no point expecting help from his superiors. Gordon had long seen through them. The current Director was in bed with certain criminal organizations, and he had no interest in taking on another headache. So what if a few dozen civilians had died? Why should that interfere with his grand pursuit of money?

Gordon felt helpless and powerless. The only person he could rely on was Batman.

Though Batman was still inexperienced, Scarecrow clearly was not much better. The two were like rookies pecking at each other, but Batman was obviously the one who won in the end.

While Jonathan was conducting an experiment in the laboratory, Batman subdued him with an Anesthetic Needle.

The camera on his Batsuit also clearly recorded how Jonathan had committed his crimes.

Faced with such an open-and-shut case, the lowly Gordon was pushed aside. His immediate superior took over the case, swiftly filed charges, and brought it to trial. At least it counted as decent political capital.

A university professor had been the mastermind behind dozens of murders? In any other region, such a bizarre major case should have occupied newspaper front pages for days. But in Gotham, while it was still considered no small case, it only took up one section of the paper's main page.

When Schiller saw that neither Gordon's nor Batman's name appeared in the newspaper, while Gordon's superior received endless praise, he knew another frustrated soul had been added to this dark city.

Gordon, this good cop, still had a long road ahead of him.

To Schiller's surprise, Gordon came to see him soon afterward.

In the Psychological Counseling Room at Gotham University, Schiller poured Gordon a cup of coffee. The detective, still fairly young at the time, looked utterly exhausted. After taking a sip of the hot coffee, his complexion improved considerably.

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

Gordon seemed hesitant to continue. Schiller said, "Let me guess. The case proceedings went smoothly, but something went wrong at the sentencing stage, didn't it?"

Gordon clenched both fists on the table, his face dark as he said, "That damned murderer is a Chemical Doctor. You should know what that means in Gotham. Some people do not want him sentenced to death. They want to excuse him on the grounds of mental illness, then have him work for them."

Sitting across from him, Schiller said, "Indeed. A genius Chemical Doctor—if he can produce even one new hallucinogenic drug, whoever hires him will make a fortune."

Gordon shook his head. "It is far more serious than that. The drugs they want Jonathan to develop may be even more dangerous."

"If they invented narcotics, they could only make a little money off addicts. But if they truly invented a virus that could bring all of Gotham under their control, then there would be no need to explain how much wealth they could gain from it," Gordon said.

"Someone leaked information about the Fear Gas?" Schiller asked. The gas was extraordinarily effective, which was why certain people had realized Jonathan's value.

Gordon looked at him, hesitated, and said, "I mean no offense, but I wanted to confirm something. Have you recently met anyone suspicious?"

"I can tell you clearly that I have not told anyone about this. It would not benefit me in any way. As a university professor, it is already disgraceful enough to have a murderer for a colleague. If I had any other connection to him, it would severely affect my career," Schiller said.

"Then..." Gordon clasped his hands together. "That night, I heard you call that bodysuited freak Bruce. He is Bruce Wayne, isn't he?"

"Regarding that subject, I cannot tell you anything. You should verify it with him yourself instead of coming to me."

"I know what you are worried about," Schiller said. "As Gotham City's largest business tycoon, Bruce Wayne may not be entirely unconnected to those dirty dealings. And if he finds out you are investigating this, you will die badly. That is what you think, isn't it?"

Gordon said, "Jonathan stated in his testimony that someone had stolen most of his Fear Gas. That bodysuited freak is my prime suspect. He is simply too suspicious."

Schiller felt a little wistful. The things that had never appeared in the comics now seemed rather interesting. Gordon and Batman, those old partners, had not trusted each other from the very beginning. Gordon had even been deeply suspicious of Batman, that bizarrely dressed vigilante.

That was not strange. No normal person could immediately accept someone wearing a black bodysuit with two pointed ears, running around Gotham in the dead of night. Such behavior did not exactly suggest a good person.

Schiller said, "Have you considered that he might suspect you in exactly the same way?"

Gordon sighed. "He has more reason to suspect me. If he really is Bruce Wayne, I know the Wayne Family's child never gave up investigating that old case. Mr. and Mrs. Wayne's deaths were extremely suspicious. I went through the case files, and there were too many things that did not add up. If Little Wayne is Batman, then of course he would not trust any police officer, including me."

"Gotham City's police..." Gordon said with a sigh. "I know the police in this city are like decorations. You cannot rely on them for anything." He looked somewhat dejected. He sighed, took another sip of coffee, and fell silent.

Schiller said, "As a stone in the mud, you are already hard enough. You cannot expect anyone to pull you out. It is better to keep rolling until you grow larger. Once you occupy the entire mud pit, it will be no different from a paved asphalt road."

"Is that how you see it? Do you think I should continue walking this path?" Gordon looked lost as well.

It was no wonder he was so depressed. He had taken enormous risks and invested countless efforts to solve the case, only to have someone steal the credit. Gordon had only wanted justice, but now someone intended to spare the murderer who had slaughtered dozens of civilians for the sake of profit. It was a heavy blow to him.

Schiller smiled and said, "Detective Gordon, it seems you need some psychological counseling. Fortunately, I happen to be a psychologist too, and I do not charge."

Gordon forced a smile. "I saw your credentials in the files, Professor Schiller. Having a renowned psychologist like you provide my treatment can count as my year-end bonus. In any case, thank you."

Schiller said, "No need to thank me. It is my honor to help one of Gotham's good police officers."

Gordon's smile became even more strained. With something like a sigh, he said, "A good cop? Perhaps..."