Batman: Resurrection

Chapter 1

You gotta love the dead, Alexander Knox had said many times. They don’t eat much, and they never bug their neighbors.

No one lasted long on the police beat if they went squirrelly when seeing a dead body. You couldn’t cover crime without encountering a victim—or twelve, as once happened to Knox during one of Carl Grissom’s infamous wars. The mobster’s lieutenant, Jack Napier, had likely done some of the killing that night; both of them were corpses themselves now. Grissom went the usual way for his kind, while Napier had gone crackers and plunged off the tallest cathedral in creation.

Knox had missed his chance to see Napier’s corpse that night, now nearly six months ago. Injured in the rampage, he had instead seen it in the hospital on the front page of his own Gotham Globe: The Joker, cracked like an egg, smiling up from the imprint he’d made in the pavement. The publication of the grisly image had provoked surprisingly little controversy. The people of Gotham City needed to see that the one who’d brought them such terror was gone for good.

But for Knox, it’d been all bad. Vicki Vale hadn’t taken that picture—she was definitely preoccupied at the time—and someone else had gotten the byline on the story of the century. His story, of Gotham City’s greed, of The Joker’s diabolical plan, of Batman’s incredible response. Back on his feet and on the beat, Knox had watched as someone else got nominated for his prize, all his legwork for naught. It wasn’t long before he was dealing with dead bodies again.

Only tonight, the corpse was a building.

The Capra was dead, having closed months earlier as another casualty of the Smylex panic. Ambulance lights had heralded The Tempest’s opening night, driving away the last remaining customers the ailing theatre had. The last play Shakespeare wrote without a partner turned out to be the final act for the Capra. The members of its company had gone their separate ways, but the corpse remained: a rundown building nobody could determine the ownership of. People had been fighting over the body ever since.

The Stantons, the Wallaces, and the Shrecks had sought the site for development, which brought out the usual people protesting that a piece of Gotham City’s history was at risk. Knox doubted that any of the daytime picketers had ever set foot in the firetrap when it was open.

But while the Capra was dead, it wasn’t deserted—not tonight.

Tipped off that people had gone inside, Knox had found the back door jimmied open. He entered the theatre, moving cautiously through halls that had been without power for weeks. But someone had some juice, if the hard-pounding music he was hearing was any indication. He followed the sound to where light flickered through a stage access door. Is the show back on?

He tested the stairs leading behind the stage. They looked creaky, but with the music blaring he figured no one would notice. Ascending, he saw that wooden scenery from the ill-fated final performance still stood on set, with prospero’s island stenciled on the back. He found a small seam in the facade and crept up to peek through it.

Somebody’s having a clambake. A beach party was raging on the island set. A bonfire burned in a large metal garbage can; next to it was a huge boombox. Wild partiers danced around them while clutching glass bottles. Some they smashed against the stage floor; others, they hurled over the seats in the once-great hall. The great size of the auditorium had so far kept it from filling with smoke; if the Capra ever had fire alarms, they weren’t going off.

Knox gently put his hands against the scenery to steady himself as he looked more closely through the opening. There were close to a dozen adults, he figured, several wearing party masks. No—clown masks. There had been a run on those at novelty shops since The Joker’s demise, and they’d become the disguise of choice for the city’s more impressionable lowlifes. But these characters’ mischief seemed limited to vandalism, fire code violations, and bad taste in music.

On top of everything else, he noticed a strange gassy smell. Wherever it was coming from, this seemed like a good place not to be. Knox was about to sneak away when a loud voice bellowed through the hall, audible over the music. “Knock it off!”

The dancers looked off to stage left. A hulking brute stomped into view, carrying a canvas bag. He tromped up to the boombox and switched it off. That’s when Knox saw what was on the bald newcomer’s face: black sunglasses, worn in a dark building in the middle of the night—and a giant black mustache that looked like it belonged on a cousin of Yosemite Sam.

Knox silently mouthed his name: Lawrence!

As The Joker, Napier had co-opted members of Grissom’s gang—as well as varied remnants of the other outfits he’d taken over. He’d also hired out, bringing in a cadre of assassins trained in special weapons and martial arts. Lawrence was just good old-fashioned muscle—and someone who had improbably survived the night of The Joker’s parade of terror in spite of his own foolishness. The Lucky Lunkhead, Knox had called him.

Based on the damage in the belfry of Gotham Cathedral and where Lawrence had been found, the police had surmised that the bruiser had attempted to jump Batman only to smash through the floor. He was fortunate there was another floor underneath to land on. Gothic architecture hadn’t been as kind to one of his cohorts. The rough landing had knocked Lawrence for a loop, and he’d wound up in traction—and then prison. Which is where he’d been, until a botched transfer the week before.

Lawrence’s presence at the Capra took this misdemeanor mayhem to another level, Knox thought. He fumbled for his recorder. He’d never heard Lawrence speak—he hadn’t said a word in his arraignment. But the bruiser’s voice boomed loud and deep as he shouted at the revelers.

“Quit screwing around!” Lawrence dropped the bag he was carrying onto the stage with a thunderous bang. Inebriated hooligans stood motionless as he approached. He loomed over one of them and seized his bottle. “Who brought the hooch?”

The drunken clown-face quivered. “We—we found it!”

“Found it?”

“Behind the concession stand. The opening night that never happened.” Clowny shrugged. “Hey, man, no sense letting it go to waste!”

“Idiot!” Lawrence struck the guy hard with the back of his hand. “You’re supposed to waste the building!”

Why? Knox wanted to ask. And even more than that: For whom? Startled into motion, he accidentally pushed against the scenery too hard—only to see the display start to tip forward. He grabbed at nothing, unable to prevent the plywood forest from crashing onto the stage in front of him.

Knox froze as all eyes turned in his direction. The reporter grinned sheepishly. “How ya doin’?”

“Get him!” Lawrence shouted.

Knox turned to run—only to trip over an electrical line. He lost his recorder as he fell. Scrambling to recover it proved a mistake, costing him valuable moments. No sooner did he return it to his overcoat pocket than the vandals were upon him.

Another command from Lawrence. “Into the light!”

The masked partiers dragged Knox to center stage, before the trash-can bonfire. The lone female among the punks shouted into his face. “Come to see a show? It’s canceled!”

“He’s canceled,” said one of the two partiers holding him from behind. “He’s a cop!”

“Guys, guys. Relax,” Knox said. “I’m not a cop.”

“Bull!” The woman yanked at the tie beneath his overcoat. “Dressed like this, what are you?”

“Health department. I thought this was Perluigi’s Pizza.” Knox strained against his captors. “I’ll just be heading there now.”

“You’re staying!” Lawrence yelled.

Knox shrank. “I’m staying.” Wisecracking had been his way out of a jam since his schoolyard days. It usually didn’t work then, either.

“Frisk him,” Lawrence ordered. If he wasn’t in charge before, he was now.

The woman fished through Knox’s opened overcoat and found his recorder. She held it up like she’d never seen one before. “Where’d you get this?”

“I can get you a rate on one,” Knox said.

“It’s mine.”

“That’s what I meant. It’s yours. Happy birthday.” He watched as she fiddled with it. “Don’t eat the battery.”

The sight of the recorder rang a bell for Lawrence. “You’re that reporter. Knox.”

“And you are Lawrence.” There was no sense pretending now, Knox thought; they’d seen each other in a court appearance. “You’re looking better. I’m sure it’s nice to be out and about. But I thought you’d be anywhere but here. Chicago, Metropolis.”

Lawrence got into his face and snarled. “This is my town.”