“Old habits,” Gordon said.

“Or instinct?”

Gordon heard something in the younger man’s voice. He gave the rookie a closer look. He was a husky young man with short, neatly cropped dark brown hair. He seemed shockingly young and fresh-faced, but Gordon recognized a hungry look in the youth’s eyes and the set of his jaw—an eagerness and curiosity Gordon remembered from his own early days as a beat cop in Chicago.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Blake, sir.”

Gordon put down the files.

“You have something you want to ask me, Officer Blake?”

Blake hesitated, then spit it out.

“It’s that night,” he said eagerly. “This night, eight years ago. The night Dent died.”

“What about it?”

“The last confirmed sighting of the Batman,” Blake said. He shook his head as if something didn’t add up. “He murders those people, takes out two SWAT teams, breaks Dent’s neck, and then just vanishes?”

Officially, the masked vigilante known as Batman had been blamed for the murders of five people, including two cops and a prominent mob boss. Only Batman and Gordon knew who was truly responsible for those killings. Or how Harvey Dent had really fallen to his death.

“I’m not hearing a question, son.”

Blake shifted uneasily, but stuck to his guns.

“Don’t you want to know who he was?”

“I know exactly who he was.” Gordon walked over to the broken searchlight. He ran his finger over its rusty frame. Once upon a time, the lens had been capable of projecting an ominous bat-winged silhouette onto the night sky. It had been a signal that let the good people of Gotham City know that someone was watching out for them—and that kept the bad people spooked. “He was Batman.”

Blake looked disappointed by Gordon’s answer, but was smart enough not to argue with his boss. Gordon couldn’t blame him for wanting answers. The mystery of the Batman had gone unsolved for close to a decade now. Blake had probably grown up hearing the legend—and its ugly conclusion.

Time to change the subject, Gordon thought. He walked past Blake and toward the stairs. “Let’s go see about the congressman’s wife.”

* * *

Sunlight crept through the thick curtains over the bedroom windows. Alfred entered, bearing breakfast on a tray, and was surprised to find the bed unoccupied. In fact, it appeared as if it had not been slept in at all.

“Master Bruce?”

No answer. Puzzled, he explored the east wing, but found no sign of his elusive employer. It dawned on him that there was one other place Bruce might be, although it had been many months—at the very least—since Bruce had ventured down there. Alfred frowned, and wondered if this was a good sign or not.

Wooden bookcases lined the walls of the study. An antique globe rested atop a polished mahogany table, not far from a grand piano that resembled the one Bruce’s mother had often played before her tragic demise. Alfred glanced at one particular bookcase before walking over to the piano.