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The first time Tim had killed, he had been 10 years old, leaping across rooftops in Gotham City as he stalked Batman and his new Robin. He could have claimed that it was an accident. That it was either his life or theirs and that in the end that didn’t matter anyway, because the swipe he took at the man with his knife while defending himself was misaimed. He could say he didn’t mean for the knife to end up embedded in a throat, but that he had lashed out in panic. An accident, truly.
But Tim’s parents had long ago taught him that accidents were never just accidents. Instead, they were slip-ups that exposed the true nature of a person.
Tim had been wandering the streets of Gotham after dark for almost 2 years by then, and would consider himself to be proficient at everything it entailed. He was nowhere near as skilled as vigilantes or certain criminals, but he was far better than the average adult. Not once in the 279 nights that he had gone out had he gotten caught, and he had masterfully evaded any and all trouble that he managed to stumble across.
In his time following the Gotham vigilantes, he had taught himself all the necessary skills – climbing, parkour, self-defence, how to tell if a fire escape would hold his weight or if it would collapse under a strong breeze, photography and, perhaps most importantly, how to stay silent and unseen.
Tim was more cautious than he had been when it was Dick Grayson under the red, yellow and green costume – he had always been cautious, because only an idiot let their guard down and believed they were safe in a city as crime-ridden as Gotham. But the new Robin, Jason Todd, had a soft spot for the Crime Alley streets from which he had been taken in from and its residents.
It was now a common occurrence for Batman and Robin’s patrol to veer off into Park Row – an area so infested with crime that police officers had given up on it and now only entered for murders and the most serious crimes, and even Batman had avoided it unless necessary – patrolling the derelict streets almost every night. And Tim, of course, followed them through Crime Alley.
Needless to say, Tim had prepared himself for the dangerous streets beforehand. The first time he had witnessed the crime fighting duo take a turn down into Park Row, he had ended his night early, turning on his heel and heading back home. And the next month was much the same as Tim prepared to enter the new area. He had researched the neighbourhood – if you could even call it that – looked at the dreaded crime statistics and memorised every street and building so he could navigate Crime Alley blindfolded, if the need arose. Then, he had upped the intensity of his martial arts training, practising moves for hours at home to build muscle memory. And as a final precaution, Tim bought himself weapons to use if necessary – something he really should have done before ever setting foot in Gotham proper after dark. He was, after all, a rather petite 10 year old, and he needed every advantage possible if he were to go up against an adult criminal.
The weapons weren’t too much, alternating between a taser or a can of pepper spray, and a collapsible baton or a small knife with a sheath he could strap to his forearm. Finally, after months of preparation, Tim had finally felt confident enough in his ability to survive Crime Alley and followed Batman and Robin in.
His initial venture had, of course, gone successfully that night, and his success continued for the next month up until that night. For a whole month there were no injuries or fights, and he had only needed to use his pepper spray once. But Tim had also learned that Park Row’s infamous reputation was not unfounded. The Bats stopped multiple robberies and assaults every night that they were in the area, crashed at least two drug trades every week, and on one occasion had caught a murderer as they were fleeing the scene of the crime – a sight that Tim was unlikely to forget.
Now, a month into his Crime Alley adventures, Tim was feeling confident in his ability to traverse the streets, and had even befriended a few street kids, who would gladly tell him of whatever useful information they overheard in exchange for money – after hearing of a murder one of the kids had witnessed, he had gotten into the habit of stuffing his pockets full of protein bars and $100 bills in preparation for their meetings.
That night, Tim had already snapped several pictures of Batman and Robin – a few of them meeting Commissioner Gordon atop the police building, one while they were on their break, Robin telling Batman about one thing or another with great enthusiasm, judging by the big grin and excessive hand gestures, and a particularly good picture of Robin sending a kick towards a robber’s face.
When Batman and Robin veered off into Crime Alley, Tim was already there, crouched in wait atop a run-down apartment just a block from Robinson Park with his camera pointed at the building opposite, where the duo always passed on their way into the heart of Park Row.
He barely had to wait five minutes before he heard the tell-tale ‘thwip, shink,’ of a grapple flying through the air and latching onto a building, and Robin entered the camera’s view, Batman only slightly behind.
Robin paused for a moment on the rooftop across from Tim and adopted what was – in Tim’s only slightly biased opinion – a heroic pose as he scanned the vicinity for any trouble. Tim snapped a picture, capturing the light behind him at what he hoped was the exact right angle to display Robin in the ethereal manner that so much of Gotham viewed him in.
As Batman caught up to Robin and they both leapt to the next rooftop, Tim snapped another picture, this time of the two of them suspended in mid-air, looking almost weightless as they flew.
Then they were off, leaping out of view. Tim knew from experience that without a grapple or the needed stamina he had no hope of keeping up with the Bats as they flew through Park Row, and instead climbed down the rickety fire escape, knowing he would have time to hunt down a few of his street kid informants before catching back up to Batman and Robin at the next checkpoint in their patrol that Tim had marked out for himself.
Tim reached the ground and deliberated for only a moment before deciding to head over to one of the abandoned warehouses nearby that was frequented by street kids looking for shelter for the night.
It took almost ten minutes for Tim to reach the warehouse, and the chill of the night was beginning to seep in through his jacket in the absence of strenuous movement or the rooftop units he hid from the wind behind.
Tim skirted around the side of the warehouse and peered through one of the many broken windows to check for any dealers or sketchy characters using the warehouse for whatever illegal activities. There was nobody there and so Tim climbed through the window and started his search.
He skirted around the edge of the building, sticking to the walls as he went, scanning for any sign of a person. Tim heard a quiet rustling in the far corner and, ensuring he was unseen, made his way over.
Hunched in the corner of the warehouse was Beth, a brunette girl only a couple of years older than him, as well as one of the first street kids he had managed to befriend.
Tim stepped into view and as soon as Beth spotted him, her defensive stance relaxed into something that didn’t look like she was preparing herself for a fight.
“Aw, Red. What’cha doin’ skulking ‘round like that? Ya’ gonna give a girl a heart attack,” Beth said.
Tim smiled guiltily at her. “Sorry, Beth. But ya’ can never be too careful, can you?” Tim’s imitation Crime Alley accent was indiscernible from a real one, and though the street kids knew he wasn’t from the area – no Crime Alley kid had as much money as he did, nor were they willing to hand it out so freely – it was still useful to hide the upper class accent his parents had trained into him and blend in with the street kids.
Tim watched as Beth’s eyes flickered around the warehouse, and she tensed at the slightest noise. “What’s got you so jumpy?” Tim asked.
Beth’s eyes snapped to him, wide. “Course you would know,” she grumbled to herself. “Saw a guy hangin’ round an alley, ya’ know the one just off Palance, right? This was a couple days ago, mind. But rumours got round that someone was killed there just yesterday. And then today, I saw the same man at the alleyway. Looked right at me, he did. Course I ran as soon as I could, but he gave me the creeps,” Beth finished with a shudder.
Tim narrowed his eyes. “The alley near Palance street, ya’ say?”
Beth looked at him concernedly. “Look kid, I know ya’ ain’t from ‘round here, but ya’ can die just as easily as the rest of us. You’ll stay away from that alley if ya’ know what’s good for you, ‘kay?”
Tim nodded his head solemnly, knowing he was not going to listen to her warning in the slightest. “Course, Beth,” he assured, then pulled a $100 note out of his pocket. “Hey, go buy ya’self somethin’ warm to eat, why don’t ya?” he said, passing the money to Beth, who readily accepted it.
“Aw, I knew there was a reason I liked ya’, Red! See ya’ round,” she said before ducking out a broken window, presumably to buy some food.
Tim stood alone in the corner of the abandoned warehouse and sighed. There was no way he would make it back to Batman and Robin’s patrol route if he wanted to check out this alley.
Mourning the loss of his vigilante photography plans, Tim headed off to Palance street. This trip was almost the same distance as the one from Robinson Park to the warehouse, but it felt much longer in the cold. He wished he could run the route across the rooftops to get his blood pumping again, but in Crime Alley, where many of the apartments were crumbling and he had to go slowly on the rooftops to be safe, it was quicker to just walk.
When Tim was a block away from the alley, he slowed his walk, silencing his footsteps and sticking to the shadows. This part of Crime Alley was all but deserted at this time of night, and so when, down the street, a man rounded the corner and started walking in his direction, Tim ducked down the nearest alley. He listened to the approaching footsteps and, figuring that the man would pass by the mouth of the alley he was in, ducked down behind one of the large dumpsters to wait for him to pass.
Once the sound of footsteps faded, the man moving on through the night, Tim let out a sigh of relief.
“What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ out here?”
Tim squeaked, jumping in surprise as a deep voice sounded from behind him.
Before he could react, a large, meaty fist was swinging at his head, the collision sending his head backwards where it hit the brick wall behind him with a crack.
Tim muffled his pained cry, blinking the stars away from his blurred vision and trying to think through the terror. He – there was a man. Large, maybe 6 foot tall. Not armed, though he looked muscular enough that it probably wouldn’t be an issue for him anyway. And he was smiling, cruel and sickening with its delight.
Tim stumbled to his feet, leaning against the wall for support and grasping his fumbling fingers around the hilt of his knife, drawing it out while the man laughed.
When Tim finally drew his courage, he glared at the man – he was ready. The man attacked.
Tim crouched under the man’s swinging fist, ducking under his guard and swinging the knife upwards for a strike of his own.
There – there was the moment where his brain worked faster than the motion, calculating the knife’s trajectory, knowing it would be lethal, but not redirecting the strike. A conscious decision.
The knife sunk into the base of the man’s skull, where the neck met the head, Tim applying force so that it sunk in to the hilt.
Hot, red blood poured over his hand, down the man’s front, and the man barely had time to make a gurgling noise as he choked on his own blood before his legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor. The man writhed as he continued to bleed, the dark circle of blood surrounding him ever growing, and his now limited breaths were wet, gasping and desperate.
In less than thirty seconds the man had stilled, eyes glazed over and unblinking in death.
Tim barely had time to pull out a plastic bag before he was emptying the contents of his stomach into it, his throat burning and eyes watering.
Once his stomach was well and truly empty, Tim tied up the bag and started to catalogue the crime scene before him.
It was odd, Tim thought to himself as he looked down at the now unseeing eyes of the man who Tim had killed. There was disgust at the gruesome sight he made, and once the situation truly sunk in he was sure there would be panic over getting caught, but there was no guilt, no emotion that a person would usually associate with the taking of a life.
All he could summon was a grim sense of accomplishment, knowing that it just as easily could have been him on the floor, blood spread over the alley ground and head thrown backwards because of a knife embedded beneath it.
Tim bent down, grasping the handle of the knife and looked away before roughly tugging the blade, ignoring to the best of his ability the sounds of gurgling, the wet flap of bloodied flesh on flesh and the sensation of the knife getting snagged on something momentarily before it gave way to the knife’s sharp edge.
Once the knife was freed, wiped clean on clothes that would have to be burned when he got home, Tim cleaned himself up as much as possible. Then, he left the alley, scanning the area as he went for any hint of a camera that could prove his guilt.
The back of his head was throbbing painfully but there was no blood, and no other symptoms that would make him suspect a concussion.
Tim threw the hood of his jumper up and made his way to a bus stop, three stops from the alley. He got on, then off, then on again as he rode the buses in a random order to throw off anyone trying to track him, flipping his jacket or changing his hoodie every now and then to make it more difficult. Then he got on a bus to Bristol, getting off at the most centralised location he could think of – the graveyard, a rather fitting location after all that had happened – and made the long trek home.
Tim showered, scrubbing off all hints of blood from his skin, threw his clothes in the basement incinerator with a vicious delight and fell asleep.
The next day the panic came. He was bound to get caught – Batman was the world’s greatest detective, after all. He compulsively checked the news, reloaded the websites while perched in front of the television. He went over the fight in his head, hoping he didn’t leave too much of his DNA behind. He hacked into the GCPD police reports, searching for a sign that the body had at least been found.
It took four days for the police report to show up. The body had been reported last night, the scene half-heartedly inspected that morning. The victim’s name was Dave Murphett, suspected on multiple counts of murder, assault and theft and who occasionally worked for Two-Face and the Penguin. The alley was far too dirty for the GCPD to even attempt to analyse any DNA collected at the scene – or so they said, but the more likely reason was laziness, corrupt as they were – and the autopsy noted that the killing blow was from low down, suggested that it was in self-defence, and left it at that.
The case was shelved like so many other ones similar to it, and just like that, Tim had gotten away with murder.