Rain bled down the cave's spine, each drop snapping into a black pool below. Machinery thrummed a low steady rhythm.
Monitors hung above like dormant eyes, waiting for orders.
A chalkboard stretched the length of the workbench where both cases were outlined. In front of it sat a stool with a thick case file resting on the seat, heavy in more ways than one.
Bruce shut out the distractions.
He hunched over the steel bench, sifting through jewelry catalogs. The card stock editions from the 1950s were set aside, followed by the glossy prints of the 1960s. Now he focused on the 1970s, a magnifier beside him. Its skeletal arm clamped to the edge, its bright glass eye hovering over a thin gold necklace.
The chain broke just before the clasp, the dime-sized pendant stamped with a mounted rider driving a spear through a coiled dragon
He knew the image from nights lurking in cathedrals, and from the banner attached to the spear. Saint George's cross.
Stamped on the back: L.G.B.
He recognized that too—Balfour Company. Still in business, though now they focused on selling graduation rings.
Above the marks, initials as fine as brushstrokes: K.K.
He'd been flipping through pages searching for a match when a pair of polished shoes clicked down the stairs. The soft scrape of porcelain followed—Alfred, balancing a tray.
Bruce didn't look up, but the scent reached him. Bread, cream cheese, and strong coffee.
Alfred slid the tray onto the table.
"Not hungry."
Alfred poured a cup. "The sandwich is mine." He held the cup out until Bruce accepted it.
"Lucius called. He's in California on company business. Said he'd look for car parts while he's there, and he asked about the mask and grapnel gun... again."
Bruce turned a page.
"There was another matter," said Alfred between bites. "Downtown's starting to notice your absence. You might consider an outing. Preferably one with cameras."
No response.
"Master Wayne?"
"Don't call me that."
"I warned you. This ridiculous playboy routine wouldn't be an easy persona to maintain."
When Bruce didn't answer, Alfred gently plucked the magazine from his hand.
"It demands regular, if hollow, appearances."
Bruce took it back. "We'll say I flew to Europe."
Alfred held up his cucumber sandwich, preparing for a bite. "Or you might consider my earlier suggestion."
"I'm not getting married."
"Perish the thought. Love, family—ghastly things to a man of twenty-two. However, a partner might help balance your calendar."
"That's why I have you."
Alfred chewed and glared. "I understand I enable this"—he gestured around the cave—"condition. But a young lady might offer something I can't."
"That's what weekends are for."
"Cheeky." He took a sip. "Regardless of what you might think, companionship, Master Wayne, is not a weakness."
"A family is a liability. Besides, I'm busy enough as it is."
"Then consider a friend. Someone who can help keep up appearances."
He didn't answer. Just flipped pages faster, one finger drumming the table with rising tempo. Alfred was getting to him—and so was the case. Then an image grabbed him. He stopped tapping. Reached for the pendant.
Alfred leaned in. "A match?"
"Yes," Bruce said with a sigh, as though it weren't good enough. He rose and crossed to the chalkboard.
"Isn't that why you've hauled these catalogs you've been hoarding like a pack rat?"
"It's not hoarding, it's collecting."
"Ah yes, the hoarder's motto," said Alfred.
"I have crumbs, pieces only." Bruce grabbed a piece of chalk.
Scrawled across the blackboard were the two cases and one lead. A thin vertical line separated each into columns. Taped above one: a grainy photo of Annh Le crouched inside a dumpster. Scrawled in chalk beneath it:
Residence: Little Saigon
Found: Southie side of Elm, near the Turn.
Last known location: Inferno Club.
Note: Polaroids behind dresser. Male in image.
911 Caller: Male. Bonneville motorcycle.
Next to it, another photo: Lan Nguyen's hand, half-rotted. Fingernails cracked and curled back. Deep bruises ringed the wrist like restraints. Scribbled underneath:
No Residence.
Found: North Elm sewers, Conway and Colan.
Last known location: Inferno Club.
Note: Polaroids taken by male named Bayli. Drives a motorcycle.
Beside that, another entry—no image, just a name: Gordon's attacker. Beneath it:
Encounter: Sewers beneath South Elm.
Details: Skilled, possibly trained fighter.
Vehicle: Motorcycle?
Bruce added another column with the heading, Bonneville Rider. The handwriting grew sharper, angrier:
Encounter: Chiarello Hotel.
Description: Balaclava—white male, brown eyes, dark brows. Dark hair? Late teens or early twenties.
Notes: Skilled fighter. Gold necklace. LGB 1979 catalog. Initials K.K.
All he had was a hunch, but one he couldn't shake. The 911 caller, Gordon's attacker, and the Bonneville were the same man. But was he the killer?
"No Bonnevilles registered in the city. Statewide? A few hits, none promising," said Bruce.
He stood back, arms crossed, staring at the board like the names might shuffle themselves into a path forward. A lead.
Alfred grabbed the thick file from the stool. "And you still believe there are more victims?"
"The killer targets quiet girls with small families. Outsiders. Immigrant families that would struggle to grab attention. He's smart. Careful. This takes planning—and experience."
Alfred flipped through missing persons reports. "There certainly are enough missing girls from Little Saigon to suggest a killer might be lurking. All vanished on Saturdays. Similar backgrounds and ages." He closed the file and joined Bruce. "You'll need Gordon for the families. Shame he's unable to give this his full attention, given his situation."
Bruce's focus slipped for a second, flickering to the line drawn by Gordon. Crossing it meant losing trust. He exhaled through his nose, annoyed.
"Hmm," said Alfred, setting his coffee aside and tilting the pendant under the light with both hands.
Bruce knew that tone. It meant he'd gotten something wrong. He walked over, leaned over Alfred's shoulder. "What is it?"
"When read left to right, they do resemble Ks."
Bruce leaned closer. Studied it. "Hangul? Korean script. How did I miss that?"
"How indeed. They are two 'ㅈ' characters—written vertically," said Alfred.
"I'm looking for someone with the initials J.J."
"Would seem so. Add that detail to your encounter and it suggests someone with mixed heritage."
"Mixed heritage," Bruce echoed. His mind drifted back to that night. Moving fast through alleys. Not an outsider—someone who knew the streets.
He moved to the computer.
"An idea, Master Wayne?"
"Saint Andrew's Cathedral and St. Jude's Presbyterian."
"Ah, the two largest churches in Koreatown," Alfred said. "But I doubt they keep a list of regulars."
"No. But they do keep baptism and marriage records."
"And those are public?"
"They are when you fund a renovation of Pinkney buildings that includes tech upgrades."
"Clever."
"All denominations agreed to it—free money's hard to decline."
He typed. Results scrolled. Names and dates. He filtered by initials, then by males born 1960 to 1964 with one non-Korean parent.
Nothing.
He adjusted the filter—first names starting with J.
Hundreds of records. He typed again.
"What now?" Alfred asked.
"Cross-referencing DMV records. The bike's not registered, but he might still have a license."
The list narrowed. A few dozen names. One stood out:
Confirmation 1979. Baptized August 16, 1962.
Mother was born in Seoul. Father was born in Midtown.
Alfred leaned in. "Jason Todd."
Bruce pulled the DMV photo. It filled the screen. Eighteen. Dark hair. Pale skin. Sharp gaze. Not unlike himself.
Those dark brown eyes looked familiar, but like everything else, it was just a piece of a puzzle that wouldn't click into place.
A monitor beeped, followed by a red bar flashing over a name.
"Ms. Freckles," Alfred said. "Wants a meeting. Odd timing, considering she knows you don't go out until nightfall."
"She must want it first thing. Did you hear anything on comms when she was out?"
"Afraid not. The plane doesn't fly itself. I was on my way down to get you."
"We should have them recorded," Bruce said.
"Another project for your list," Alfred said, sipping coffee. "What do you suppose she heard?"
"Whatever it is, it'll have to wait until I see him."
Jason Todd's face lingered on the screen—slim, straight-backed, watchful.
Bruce held his gaze. Not a threat. Not a suspect. Just another question he hadn't solved yet.