Batman's Wavering Again

Gordon undid a button at his collar, twisted his neck to loosen his shoulders, then turned his head to look out the window at Gotham's pitch-black rainy night—still the same cold and damp.

His colleagues exchanged goodbyes and left the station for the day. One of them said to Gordon, "Hey, man, you never should've taken that thorny case. Dozens of missing persons? Looks like you'll be digging through files until midnight again tonight."

Gordon gave a helpless smile and said, "You said it yourself—dozens of missing persons. I have to pay attention."

After his colleagues were gone, Gordon brewed himself a strong cup of coffee. He planned to fight through the night.

The missing persons case in Morsen District was highly suspicious. In the past, even if disappearances were handled discreetly, some victims' bodies would still turn up. But out of the forty-six people missing from Morsen District, not a single body had appeared on Gotham's streets. That was very abnormal.

Gotham had never been a city of law. Gangs were as numerous as ox hair here, and no seasoned gang member would bother disposing of a body—it was thankless work. They'd just toss the corpse out a window. They knew it wouldn't fool the police, but the police meant nothing in Gotham anyway.

The dozens of missing people from Morsen District came from all walks of life. They had almost no common pattern. The only thing they shared was that they were all permanent residents of Morsen District.

At this time, Gordon was still young, just a small-time head in the Police Department, far from the Director's seat. This case—a hot potato no one wanted to touch—had ultimately been taken on by the fairly righteous Gordon. Even though he knew it was likely a thankless job, he still intended to give it his all and seek justice for the victims.

Just as he was staying up late organizing files and already drowsy, he suddenly sensed a noise behind him. He turned around, and a massive shadow loomed over him. Gordon immediately reached for his waist, but his gun wasn't there.

The man opposite wore a black skintight suit, had two pointed ears on his head, and was draped in a black cape. His tall frame nearly blocked out all the light overhead. Gordon said cautiously, "Who are you? Why are you in the police station?"

"You can think of me as a vigilante. I'm investigating the missing persons case in Morsen District. I noticed you went there today, and yesterday too. You must be the detective in charge of this case. I'd like access to the files on the missing people."

Gordon was about to refuse, but the man spoke again: "Of course, I also have some leads I can exchange with you. Or rather, I can work with you to solve this case."

A vigilante? Gordon thought. That's absurd. There's no way someone like that exists in Gotham City—otherwise, it wouldn't be called the City of Crime.

Gordon and Batman's first meeting wasn't pleasant. They faced off in the police station for a long time. Clearly, the rookie Batman hadn't yet grasped the art of leaving without finishing his sentences. He wasted a lot of time with Gordon before finally losing patience.

Batman realized he was really unlucky. Gotham had countless negligent cops, but he'd run into the most conscientious one. Gordon was even ready to protect those files with his life. Batman didn't want to hurt him, so he had no better option.

After cleaning up the Gutter Gang, Batman had been deeply shaken by that beggar. Though he'd saved the beggar in the end, he'd clearly reflected on his actions, starting to aim lower instead of reaching too high, beginning with the simplest tasks.

This was the starting point of his superhero path. Morsen District, aside from the Gutter Gang, was far from peaceful. The missing persons case had reached a dangerously high number. The permanent population here was only a few hundred, yet over forty people had vanished. Batman resolved to make this case his debut.

And of course, he had a suspect in mind.

A university professor, staying up late at night, sneaking into a Gotham gang district, appearing for no reason and disappearing for no reason—was there anyone more suspicious than that?

Batman had considered confronting Schiller directly, but he knew he'd likely lose a verbal battle with that professor. He'd already lost twice in their exchanges. He felt he needed solid evidence before bringing him to justice.

That day, Batman was back in Morsen District. Since he couldn't get the missing persons files from Gordon, he broke into the home of one of the missing people, hoping to find other clues.

He'd just climbed out of a window when he saw Schiller again. Not far away, under a streetlamp, Schiller was holding a black umbrella, staring at the wall across the street. Batman spotted him.

He noticed Schiller was looking at the spot where the beggar used to sit. But there was no beggar there now—Batman had sent him to the best hospital in Gotham and covered all his medical expenses. The beggar had lost both legs but at least survived.

Because the beggar had leaned against that wall for years, a dark stain had been left behind. Rainwater had formed a small puddle where he used to sit, reflecting the dim yellow light of the streetlamp. Schiller stood across the street, gazing at the puddle, lost in thought.

The young Batman couldn't hold back. He jumped down and appeared in front of Schiller.

"Good evening, Batman. I remember you called yourself that last time, so I'll use it too."

Batman's eyes, beneath his mask, locked onto him. He said, "Don't beat around the bush with me. You know why I'm here."

"You're here to be a savior, I know. Like saving that poor beggar."

"Did you commit the missing persons case in Morsen District?" Batman asked.

Schiller shook his head. Batman said, "You're the only outsider here, and you have no motive to be in this place."

Schiller said, "Clearly, you've already made up your mind. Why ask me? You're always good at turning what you've already decided into questions to ask others."

"If you get an answer you like, you're satisfied. But if you don't get the answer you want, you get angry."

"If I say I'm not the culprit, you'll be furious. But your anger won't come from your sense of justice—it'll be because I didn't give you the answer you wanted."

"You think you're infallible, don't you?" Schiller asked.

"I told you, don't play games with me. You're the only one here with any suspicion..."

Before Schiller could speak, he noticed a Batarang fly past the side of his neck. He'd underestimated things a bit. Whether it was this Batman or the future one, they didn't kill, but they often beat criminals bloody, not hesitating to break their legs before sending them to the hospital.

But clearly, this young Batman was missing a step.

Schiller stayed silent for a moment. Another Batarang grazed his neck. This time, Schiller didn't use his Spider-Sense to dodge—he just watched Batman calmly.

The Batarang left a gash on his neck, blood seeping out. Just then, rapid footsteps echoed from the end of the alley, and a voice shouted, "Stop!"

Batman turned to look. Under the streetlamp, Gordon was aiming his pistol at the two of them.

"Detective Gordon, good evening," Schiller said.

Gordon approached slowly, gun raised, and said, "Put down your weapons. Don't move."

Schiller spread his hands to show he had no weapon, while Batman tucked the Batarang he was holding away.

As Gordon got closer, he saw the blood flowing from Schiller's neck, streaming down his shoulder and soaking his shirt.

Schiller said, "Batman, you made a mistake. You said I'm the only suspect, but this detective clearly doesn't think so."

"The one with no motive to be here, besides me, is you."

"I'm here to investigate the missing persons case," Batman said.

"So am I," Schiller replied. "But clearly, you're no nobler than I am. Neither of us is a cop. I think only Detective Gordon here has the authority to do that."

"I'll find the evidence," Batman said.

"If you need evidence too, then what's the difference between you and the police?" Schiller suddenly asked.

Batman was momentarily speechless. He had originally thought Schiller would ask him for evidence, and Batman knew that even though Schiller had appeared where he shouldn't have, that couldn't serve as proof of actual crime. So he had resolved to find some clue, some thread, to prove Schiller was the murderer.

But Schiller's question hit the mark. Batman thought that he had always considered the police utterly useless, because they needed evidence for everything—even if a murder happened right in front of them, if they hadn't seen the killer, they wouldn't arrest the most obvious suspect.

That was how it had been when his parents died. No police officer had given the explanation that should have been given, no one had been brought to justice. His parents had died, and no one had paid the price.

He thought, if he also needed evidence, then why didn't he just become a cop at the Gotham Police Department?

But if he didn't need evidence and just arrested anyone he pleased, then what difference was there between him and a criminal?

Batman regretted it. He shouldn't have stepped forward to talk to Schiller. Every conversation with Schiller shook him profoundly, and this kind of psychological and ideological wavering was the most dangerous thing.

Every time he encountered Schiller, Batman had to go back and think deeply for at least two or three days, figure out the question Schiller had raised, find his own answer, steady his conviction, and only then could he come out to operate again.

He felt it was no different from attending university lectures. The teacher posed a question, the student thought it over, then wrote a paper. And the next time they met, besides checking the homework, there was a new question waiting for him—one question after another, as if there would never be an end.

And Schiller, for his part, was complaining inwardly. This Jonathan really had some nerve. After Schiller had stolen most of the Fear Gas, instead of slowing down his research, it had only made him kidnap test subjects more frantically, forcing Schiller to lose sleep at night cleaning up this mess.