The Science of Fear Who: OPEN Where: Starts at the GCPD HQ When: Night What: The villains' plan begins to unfold
Jim took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. He didn't have to glance at the clock quietly ticking away on the wall to know it was late. Too late. He should have gone home hours ago, but he hated the empty house. Maybe he should get a dog or something. A headache was starting behind his eyes, telephoto lens photographs of the bridge to the Narrows were scattered all over his desk, a magnifying glass nearby; he'd been trying to make out faces. Obsessing. Just a little bit.
Montoya poked her head into his office. "County's here to take Pizarro away, commish," she told him and he nodded, waved his hand dismissively. The sooner they were rid of that trash, the better. He must be more tired than he thought; the world seemed to shimmer a little, and his heart was speeding up.
"Down the hall," Renee urged the chained Tony, giving his back a push.
"I'm going as fast as I can, you wetback cunt," he grunted in reply.
"Wow, really helping your case there, Tony," she spat back, passing Gordon's office on the way to the front desk where the armed guards were waiting to take custody of him.
Jim looked up and he saw him: he was holding a gun, waving it at Montoya and laughing at her as she remained terrified but stoic. He pulled the trigger, that insane laughter reaching a peak as Montoya crumpled to the ground. "Barbara's next, Jim," he taunted from the doorway, waving his gun. "And I'm going to finish it this time!" Too slow, Gordon felt he was moving too slow as he reached for his gun.
"Aw, are we getting rid of Tony Pizarro so soon?" Bullock said with mock disappointment as Montoya approached the front desk, the guards finishing up the paperwork. "Now don't disappoint us, Tony," he continued, crossing his arms over his large chest, "I have a c-note says that your some hardened criminal's little bitch within a week. Montoya here thinks you won't last that long."
"Damn straight," she murmured darkly. "What the...?" she swore as the shot rang out in the hall, Gordon coming storming out. Bullock looked surprised, almost in shock; Jim had his weapon pulled.
"Which way did he go?" Gordon demanded. "Where did he go?!" He saw the prison bus leaving and, in his mind, it looked like a getaway car. Jim was out the doors and fumbling for his car keys before anyone had a chance to answer.
"The fuck's wrong with him?" asked Bullock, his eyebrows raised, but when he looked at Montoya, he could see the same twisted expression of fear spreading across her usually composed face as she stared at him blankly.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "No, you're dead, Vic. I didn't have anything to do with that; you told me you were dying, I just did what you wanted me to. I swear, if I'd known...."
Bullock stared back at her and shook his head. "M'I the only one ain't crazy 'round here?"
***
Barbara stretched and popped her neck. Her bank of computers were doing their jobs, analyzing the video tape the police had received. 'Video,' she thought disdainfully, 'seriously?' She supposed they didn't really keep up with modern technology in an asylum, but still! She'd seen Gilda Dent seemingly tortured again and again and again, keeping the sound low, so as not to disturb.... She smiled softly.
Her computer had already determined that the laugh was a recording; it didn't have the same cadence as the other voices in the room. It was working hard to identify the people who were even partially in shot and to clean Gilda up to determine the real damage. Barbara had to close her eyes and shake her head, trying to clear it. Too much time staring at a screen, she supposed. And then the screens went blank with a little electronic skip. She looked around, confused for a moment. She typed in a recover code and was horrified when it was Gilda who filled the screen once more, but her own prone figure, lying in a spreading pool of her almost black blood, her face shocked, confused as the camera loomed over her.
He was laughing. "Smile for the camera, Babsy," he urged. He reached down to stroke her and she found she couldn't shy away from him, couldn't move at all. "Do you want to know," he asked, "how I got these scars?"
Her lips were moving, trying to speak. she couldn't remember what it was she had wanted to say. Maybe she was asking about her father. Maybe she was threatening him. "No," she said now, turning to see the image popping up on every screen. "No, no." She backed her wheelchair up, barely aware of the approaching siren in the distance, and turned toward the bedroom. And he was there, with that cold-eyed camera in his hand. she reached for her fighting sticks, but knew she wasn't going to be fast enough, not with her pounding heart and head.