It was obvious that he had gone from depression to dementia, and I had to discuss the matter with someone, no matter how obliquely.
Commissioner Gordon was the only logical person with which to share my concern. I decided to use the same ruse that gained me entry into Pine-Whatney Clinic, my master’s concern for Batman’s welfare. However, it was hopeless; the Commissioner was far too busy to take my call, and it was understandable. The criminals of Gotham City, showing their disdain for “Batty Batman,” were intensifying their assault on public property. Commissioner Gordon was undoubtedly frantic, especially since the press was exhorting Mayor Paul Donovan to demand his resignation. Indeed, that action seemed inevitable.
Then another thought occurred to me. Perhaps it might be useful if I spoke privately with Batman’s psychiatrist, Dr. Lace. Her fees were being paid through Mr. Wayne’s bank, and that might provide enough excuse for a conversation.
Rather than risk another rejection by telephone, I made a personal visit to Dr. Lace, making sure that my timing didn’t coincide with Batman’s own scheduled daily visit. But there was still a surprise awaiting me. As I arrived, I saw someone else leaving Dr. Lace’s quiet brownstone, a man whose face was immediately recognizable. It was Mayor Donovan himself.
I was still pondering this odd coincidence when I rang the doorbell. Dr. Lace’s nurse-receptionist, a cold-eyed matron with the inappropriate name Mrs. Bonny, looked at me suspiciously. However, when she communicated my message to Dr. Lace, the psychiatrist amiably agreed to see me.
Her first question was why Batman’s benefactor, Mr. Wayne, hadn’t made this call himself. Wasn’t it odd to send a butler in his place?
“Mr. Wayne is indisposed,” I explained. “He contracted a virus of some sort.” I didn’t blink at the lie; there was actually some symbolic truth in it.
“Well, I hope your Mr. Wayne realizes that there is very little I can reveal about this case. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“He understands that you have to respect your patient’s confidentiality,” I said. “But he’s very concerned about this new development, these bizarre public appearances . . . You are aware of your patient’s . . . eccentric behavior?”
“I’m aware of it,” the psychiatrist said coolly. “But why do you assume all ‘eccentric’ behavior is abnormal? Hasn’t it occurred to you—that Batman may be merely expressing a long-supressed sense of humor?”
“I never thought Batman’s humor was ‘supressed,’ ” I replied, just as cooly. Then, fearing that I was revealing too much, added quickly: “It seems odd that he would turn prankster so shortly after suffering a tragic loss . . .”
“The normal mourning period passed some time ago,” Dr. Lace said. “This may simply be Batman’s way of expressing his renewed zest for life, by playing games with his identity.”
“That’s exactly what worries me—Mr. Wayne, I mean. The game seems so pointless! Fatman! Hatman! Who knows what’s next?”
I was soon to find out. The telephone on Dr. Lace’s desk chirped quietly, and she picked it up. Her lovely face darkened as she heard Mrs. Bonny’s voice. When she hung up, she said: “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have a patient in trouble.”
It was only after I left Dr. Lace’s office that I learned that patient was Batman himself. Fortunately, I passed a blaring car radio on the street, and heard the news bulletin. Batman had been spotted perched on a thirty-story ledge of Gotham City Towers, and police and fire brigades had been dispatched with ladders and nets in case of a suicide attempt.
I was horrified, of course. Batman was frequently referred to as a superhero, and many myths circulated about his superhuman powers. Whatever supreme qualities he possessed, he had earned by rigorous training of his body and mind. He had already demonstrated that that mind was
Commissioner Gordon was the only logical person with which to share my concern. I decided to use the same ruse that gained me entry into Pine-Whatney Clinic, my master’s concern for Batman’s welfare. However, it was hopeless; the Commissioner was far too busy to take my call, and it was understandable. The criminals of Gotham City, showing their disdain for “Batty Batman,” were intensifying their assault on public property. Commissioner Gordon was undoubtedly frantic, especially since the press was exhorting Mayor Paul Donovan to demand his resignation. Indeed, that action seemed inevitable.
Then another thought occurred to me. Perhaps it might be useful if I spoke privately with Batman’s psychiatrist, Dr. Lace. Her fees were being paid through Mr. Wayne’s bank, and that might provide enough excuse for a conversation.
Rather than risk another rejection by telephone, I made a personal visit to Dr. Lace, making sure that my timing didn’t coincide with Batman’s own scheduled daily visit. But there was still a surprise awaiting me. As I arrived, I saw someone else leaving Dr. Lace’s quiet brownstone, a man whose face was immediately recognizable. It was Mayor Donovan himself.
I was still pondering this odd coincidence when I rang the doorbell. Dr. Lace’s nurse-receptionist, a cold-eyed matron with the inappropriate name Mrs. Bonny, looked at me suspiciously. However, when she communicated my message to Dr. Lace, the psychiatrist amiably agreed to see me.
Her first question was why Batman’s benefactor, Mr. Wayne, hadn’t made this call himself. Wasn’t it odd to send a butler in his place?
“Mr. Wayne is indisposed,” I explained. “He contracted a virus of some sort.” I didn’t blink at the lie; there was actually some symbolic truth in it.
“Well, I hope your Mr. Wayne realizes that there is very little I can reveal about this case. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“He understands that you have to respect your patient’s confidentiality,” I said. “But he’s very concerned about this new development, these bizarre public appearances . . . You are aware of your patient’s . . . eccentric behavior?”
“I’m aware of it,” the psychiatrist said coolly. “But why do you assume all ‘eccentric’ behavior is abnormal? Hasn’t it occurred to you—that Batman may be merely expressing a long-supressed sense of humor?”
“I never thought Batman’s humor was ‘supressed,’ ” I replied, just as cooly. Then, fearing that I was revealing too much, added quickly: “It seems odd that he would turn prankster so shortly after suffering a tragic loss . . .”
“The normal mourning period passed some time ago,” Dr. Lace said. “This may simply be Batman’s way of expressing his renewed zest for life, by playing games with his identity.”
“That’s exactly what worries me—Mr. Wayne, I mean. The game seems so pointless! Fatman! Hatman! Who knows what’s next?”
I was soon to find out. The telephone on Dr. Lace’s desk chirped quietly, and she picked it up. Her lovely face darkened as she heard Mrs. Bonny’s voice. When she hung up, she said: “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I have a patient in trouble.”
It was only after I left Dr. Lace’s office that I learned that patient was Batman himself. Fortunately, I passed a blaring car radio on the street, and heard the news bulletin. Batman had been spotted perched on a thirty-story ledge of Gotham City Towers, and police and fire brigades had been dispatched with ladders and nets in case of a suicide attempt.
I was horrified, of course. Batman was frequently referred to as a superhero, and many myths circulated about his superhuman powers. Whatever supreme qualities he possessed, he had earned by rigorous training of his body and mind. He had already demonstrated that that mind was
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