Chapter Text

THE GOTHAM GLOBE

Issue # 14   Saturday, July 24, 2010   $3.50

Timothy Drake Abducted From Robinson Park: Police and Family Plead for Information

Local authorities continue the search for four-year-old Timothy Drake, who was abducted from Robinson Park on Monday afternoon. 

Timothy, son of Jack and Janet Drake, was on a routine outing with his nanny when an unidentified masked man assaulted the caregiver and fled the scene with the child. Timothy’s nanny sustained minor injuries from the attack and remains the only known witness. 

Jack Drake is the owner and chief executive of Drake Industries, a multimillion-dollar company focused on producing pharmaceuticals and medical equipment. 

Despite the family’s prominence and wealth, authorities have confirmed that no ransom demand has been received since Timothy’s disappearance. 

This morning, the GCDP has released a sketch of the suspect and is urging anyone with information to come forward. 

Story continues on Pg 5. 

THE GOTHAM GLOBE

Issue # 1   Wednesday, July 22, 2026   $4.87

Remembering Timothy Drake’s Abduction Over a Decade Later

More than ten years ago, Gotham was shocked by the abduction of four-year-old Timothy Drake from Robinson Park, a still unsolved case that, to this day, remains one of this city’s most heartbreaking and puzzling mysteries. 

On the afternoon of July 22, 2010, Timothy and his nanny were out on a routine walk when they were assaulted by an unidentified man. What followed was the largest search for a missing child in Gotham’s history. 

Despite the efforts of local and state authorities as well as numerous volunteers, Timothy was never found. 

Now, more than a decade later, investigators admit that still very little is known regarding what happened to the boy after his disappearance. No ransom demand was ever made, and there have been no credible sightings. Several possible suspects have been identified over the years, but no arrests have been made. 

The case officially remains open; however, two years ago, Timothy Drake was officially named deceased and removed from the missing persons database. 

In the years following the disappearance of their son, Jack and Janet Drake turned their grief towards advocacy. In 2017, they established the Timothy Drake Fund, a non-profit organization dedicated to child safety, kidnapping prevention and supporting families affected by child abduction. 

The anniversary comes just a few weeks before Gotham's annual Humanitarian Ball. Earlier this year, organizers announced that this year the ball would be held in Robinson Park instead of its usual location, the Orpheum Theatre. 

Several members of the general public have taken to social media to voice their displeasure at this decision. 

Notable social media personality Bernard Down was among some of the most vocal critics, calling the decision “an insult to the memory of a missing child.”

“It’s not about the money. They could raise a billion dollars, and it still wouldn’t make it right.” Down said in a video posted Thursday evening. “A four-year-old child was kidnapped from that park. I don’t think the people defending this decision get that. A child was taken from that park and never found. For all intents and purposes, Robinson Park is his final resting place.” 

Down went on to criticise the idea behind this year's ball. 

“They’re calling it a tribute. But Timothy Drake isn’t a historical figure. There are people alive right now who were part of the search parties. His mother is still giving interviews about how she longs for him to come home, even if that’s in a body bag. Timothy would only be twenty today. If they really wanted to honour Timothy, they would re-open his case and hand it off to authorities not as corrupt as ours.”

Down’s comments quickly gained traction online, with thousands of Gothamites sharing similar concerns. 

One resident wrote, “Every year, the city is reminded that hundreds of children go missing and less than 10% are ever found. Then, fewer than 3% are found alive. They’re turning a crime scene into a spectacle like they always do. Because that’s easier than addressing the real problem.” 

The ball organizers have taken to social media to defend their decision, stating that proceeds from the event will go to the Timothy Drake Fund and other related charities. 

The Drakes have declined to comment further on the controversy and simply stated they will not be attending. 

Story continues on Pg 3. 

Timothy Jackson Drake has been a great deal of things throughout his life: a Drake (by birth only), a number, a Wayne (by extension), a runaway. 

Now, to say Timothy is anything at all would be a lie, for Timothy doesn’t exist. At least, not anymore. There was a time when “Timothy” was just as real as any other ordinary child, as normal as the stars in the sky. But just as there was a time before Timothy, there is also a time after Timothy: a time which also just happens to be now.

Timothy is not the person who steps into Bruce Wayne’s office on the top floor of Wayne Enterprises; that’s Caroline Hill.  

Caroline Hill is twenty-five years old, carries a top-of-the-line Wayne Tech Tablet, and has an employee badge with a smiling photo plastered on the front. 

Caroline is everything Timothy is not. She grew up in the Narrows¹, graduated from high school at the top of her class, and secured a full scholarship to Stanford, where she earned a bachelor’s degree in media communication. 

Miss Hill then moved back to Gotham, bought an apartment in the West End of the city, and started working at Wayne Enterprises in Corporate Communications exactly three months after graduation. Two years later, here she was, promoted to CEO Bruce Wayne’s personal assistant, though really, she felt more like a babysitter. 

“Good Morning, Mr. Wayne.” 

Bruce was sitting at his mahogany desk staring at his monitor screen like it had personally wronged his entire family. 

“Caroline,” Bruce started, slowly, “I just received the most puzzling email. Apparently, my suit fitting was cancelled. Did I pick the wrong designer? I could have sworn this was the same one I used last year.” 

She resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose because, of course, “Brucie” Wayne hadn’t read her email. 

“I cancelled the fitting. Mr. Wayne, did you get the chance to read my email?” 

To his credit, Bruce looked genuinely remorseful as he shook his head. “No, but how exactly does that solve my now lack of a suit for the ball?” 

Caroline stared blankly at him. There was no possible way this man was so out of the loop as to imply he had no idea what she was talking about. He was Batman for crying out loud, not that anyone was supposed to know that. 

“Mr. Wayne, you are not attending this year’s Humanitarian Ball.” 

Bruce blinked owlishly at her. “Excuse me?” 

“As I am sure you’re well aware, the location of the event has been changed to Robinson Park—”

“But, we’ve known that for months now!” Bruce interjected. 

“Mr. Wayne, please don’t interrupt me.”

Caroline took a moment to readjust her knife-pleated skirt from where it was slowly rising on her thigh. She gave it a few good yanks for good measure before straightening up to face her boss. 

“While it is true that Gotham elites were given the location on the invitation, the location change was only made public last week, Thursday morning. To say that it was received poorly would be an understatement.”

Poorly was a nice way of saying that Caroline had spent the last three business days being bombarded with phone calls and emails requesting a comment from Bruce Wayne on the whole ordeal. She’d spent her evenings in meetings with the public relations manager, drafting statements and planning different courses of action. 

The whole situation was a nightmare. 

“As you are aware, there’s always been backlash regarding the, um, parties hosted during gala season; however, this is less of a general critic on the ethics of millionaires,” she glanced Bruce’s way, “excuse me, billionaires, and more on the lack of care towards a tragedy.” 

Bruce nodded, rapping his forefinger and thumb against the desk. “But the Wayne family has always been about supporting charities and the betterment of Gotham.” 

“Indeed. Normally, this would not be a concern; however, on Monday morning, the Drakes took to social media to comment on the whole ordeal. Do you know what they said?” 

Bruce shook his head. 

Sighing, Caroline pulled up the Drake's post and set the tablet down in front of Bruce.

Janet Drake ✪ @janetdrakeoffical

We’re beyond grateful for Gotham’s continued support and overwhelmed by the ongoing compassion we receive every day regarding Timothy’s memory. 

We acknowledge the organizer's intention behind the decision to host this year’s Humanitarian Ball in Robinson Park, and recognize all the support and care given to the Timothy Drake Fund and our son’s legacy. 

However, we are regretful to inform you that after careful consideration, we have decided not to attend this year’s event. Drake Industries thanks the continued support for efforts that prioritize child safety, missing persons advocacy and meaningful changes. 

— Janet Drake

2.3M♡ㅤ50k⎙ㅤ20k⌲

“Mr. Wayne, based on this, what do you think the Drake's position is on this matter?” 

Bruce stared pensively at the tablet as if willing the post to disappear. His face was a mix of Batman’s sternness and Bruice’s airheaded temper. 

“I’d say, they’re not particularly pleased.” 

Caroline pursed her lips. “That’s definitely one way of framing it.” 

Bruce, not so subtly, glanced down at her feet, eying her heels with a remarkably hostile glance before wincing slightly. She let him go through the motions of gesturing to the chair in front of his desk before sitting. 

Caroline is used to this song and dance. Bruce’s need to be of use, to provide something for the people around her and her genuine apathy towards others. Still, she humours him because one, he’s always going on about how she doesn’t need to wear heels in the office and how painful they look, and two, because deep down, she still cares for the Waynes, no matter how annoying they can be. 

“If you’d read my email,” the not-so-subtle jab has Bruce flush red, “you’d know that I’ve been in contact with our PR department. The decision was unanimous; the Waynes cannot attend. Attendance would send the message that you don’t stand with the Drake’s decision on this matter.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair, arms coming up to rest behind his head. 

“That’s absurd. Surely my lack of attendance would also send the wrong message.” 

“A problem we’ve already thought of and have dealt with.” 

She dragged her tablet across the desk towards her to pull up the files she’d prepared. For a few seconds, the room was silent save for her nails tapping against the glass screen. Then, she passed her tablet back over, the screen now displaying the docket. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a meeting with the Drakes tomorrow around noon at Drake Industries. As outlined in the proposal,” Caroline waved vaguely in the direction of her tablet, “the Wayne Foundation intends to make a private donation of thirty million dollars, in addition to establishing ongoing financial support to the Timothy Drake Fund.” 

Bruce made a non-descript grunt. “And this meeting is public?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Then–” 

“We have arranged a ‘leak’ of sorts to a couple of trusted papazzi. They will capture photos of you leaving D.I. From there, we’ll let speculation grow until about a week before the Ball, approximately twelve days from now, when we’ll post the statement.” 

When Bruce gave her a confused glance. 

“The statement is on page three.” 

Bruce’s tongue darted out across his lower lip. “I mean, this is all good, but won’t people question where I am on the day of the Ball?”  

“Likely yes, but I have planned for that. Assuming that all goes well in tomorrow’s meeting, on the evening of the Ball, you and all your children will be photographed entering the Drakes apartment building.” 

“And what makes you think we’d get along well enough to even receive an invite to their penthouse?” 

"It's simple." Caroline broke into a wolfish grin. "You can both bond over losing children young.” 

There are many things Bruce can say he regrets. He regrets going to the movies that fateful night. Regrets not treating Alfred, the man who effectively raised him, like the father figure he is. Regrets his aversion to therapy. Regrets not solving cases fast enough. Regrets not being fast enough in general. 

But, more than anything, he regrets not being able to tell his children that he loves them. 

Not because he doesn’t love them, and definitely not because they don’t know that. At least, he hopes they know that. But because he’s lost two children now. Two children who never got to hear the words, ‘I love you’, come from his mouth. 

He tries to be better; he is doing better, apparently. 

His surviving children tell him he’s not as emotionally stunted. That he’s a better father. That he’s changed. Of course, to say that means he could have changed earlier and chose not to. 

Bruce knows that’s not entirely fair. His therapist always tells him he tends to blame himself for things that aren’t his fault. 

But grief isn’t simple. It’s all-consuming. Bruce has been grieving since he was eight. Grieving the death of his parents. Grieving the death of his childhood. Grieving the death of his children.

Jason’s death is easier. It’s older. It no longer hurts as much when he remembers it. And Jason didn’t stay dead because that boy never did anything in halves. It’s a lot easier to apologize to a living person who can accept it. It’s also easier to move on when said apology is mostly accepted.  

Alvin’s death is harder. His therapist tells him that’s because he played less of a role in it. Bruce disagrees. 

Alvin didn’t die as a result of being a vigilante. He didn’t die a hero. Didn’t die due to a rogue or crime gone wrong. Alvin died by his own hand in his bathtub in Wayne Manor. Died surrounded by family and yet, completely alone. 

Bruce remembers the silence that followed his death more than the crying or screaming. 

One second, the world was full of noise; then the next second, noise was never a thing in the first place.  

Maybe the silence had started the second Alvin’s heart stopped beating. Maybe it started after the funeral. Maybe the world had always been silent, and Alvin had been the one to bring the noise. 

“Mr. Wayne,” a soft voice calls out. 

Caroline sits beside him in the back of his Aston Martin Valour. She’s as put together as she always is. Hair tucked behind her ears and secured with a tortoise-shell headband. As always, she’s wearing a skirt and blouse from some local designer in the Garment District. Bruce catches a glimpse of her signature Miss Z Louboutins, an item that she continues to wear daily despite his best efforts. 

Her black Wayne Tech tablet rests on top of her lap, several green file folders stacked delicately on it. 

“You have nothing to worry about. This meeting is a sure success.”  

Her voice has an uncharacteristic amount of emotion in it. 

“What if it’s too late and they think I’m only doing this to save face?” 

“Compassion is never late.” Caroline offers. 

When she notices that her words of comfort don’t have the desired effect, she switches back to her logical approach. 

“Mr. Wayne, you’ve been a continued supporter of the Timothy Drake Fund since its founding eight years ago. Do you know the amount of money you have donated to the cause over the years?” 

Bruce shook his head. 

“Just over 200 million dollars. Money which has gone on to help exactly 571 children be reunited with their families, and over 2,000 have benefited directly from the funds you gave. My point is that you’ve done a lot of good not only for the Drakes, but for the city.” 

The car rolled to a stop in front of Drake Industries. Several pedestrians looked over, some with distaste, others with respect. 

Drake Industries' headquarters is a forty-eight-story building made of mostly glass. The sun catches the glass panes in just the right way, making it look more like part of the sky and less like another building in a cursed city. 

It looms above him as he steps out of the car onto the sidewalk. His presence doubles the number of gawking spectators. A few of the younger crowd members pull out their phones to take pictures. Bruce is about to request that they don’t when Caroline appears beside him. 

“Let them,” she hisses, “it’s beneficial for our situation.” 

Resigning himself to a public spectacle, Bruce marches towards the revolving doors of the building, trying his best to ignore the pointed whispers.

He’s distinctly aware of the elderly couple discussing his latest farce of landing in the champagne pool at Lex’s gala. He tries his best not to feel embarrassed over the video he knows they’re mentioning because he was just doing what Bruice would. It’s hard not to feel embarrassed, though. 

Caroline clacks forward, appearing completely unbothered by the surprised looks sent her way. 

Bruce makes a mental note to send Lucius another thank-you basket for suggesting her as his new P.A when he last retired. That and making sure she didn’t go to work for LexCorp. 

God, what would he do without this brilliant, brilliant woman? 

When they make it to the lobby, Bruce hangs a few steps behind Caroline as she talks to the receptionist. He does, however, pointedly ensure he’s walking in front of her as they’re escorted to the private elevators.   

The elevator hums a happy little tune as it makes its way up to the forty-eighth floor. The doors make a charming ding when they open, revealing Jack Drake’s office. 

To say Jack Drake’s office was an office would be like saying an apartment was the same thing as a house. Technically, they served the same function, but they were worlds apart. 

Floor-to-ceiling windows occupied the far wall. From this height, the city looked almost peaceful. Just another concrete jungle in the sea of other concrete jungles. If Gotham wasn’t always cloudy, there probably would be several patches of sunlight on the floor. 

The room bore the weight of wealth. Everything was so clearly expensive but not in a tacky way. The Drakes, for all their new money, bore wealth well. 

Walnut floors, custom-built-in bookshelves, hand-bound books of every shade of natural and dyed leather. Squeeze in the spaces between the books were framed photographs. On the wall adjacent to the windows, a framed Le Bassin aux Nymphéas² hung, no doubt the original. 

The Drakes occupied the area behind the desk. Janet sat stiffly in the office chair, pale hands resting on the desk. Behind her, Jack stood, right hand resting on the back of Janet’s chair. Together, the couple presented a united, unwavering front. 

Noticing their arrival, Jack Drake stepped around Janet’s chair and extended his hand. 

“Bruce, it’s been quite a while, old friend.” 

Bruce crossed to the room to accept the handshake. 

“Please,” Janet said, rising from her chair, “Sit.” She gestured towards a cozy-looking seating area near the windows. 

Bruce opted for one of the armchairs, leaving the couch across for the couple. Unsurprisingly, Caroline chose to stand behind him. 

Janet shot her a concerned glance before sharing a knowing look with her husband. 

“I do believe the last time we properly saw you was,” Janet trailed off, looking rather sheepish, “the funeral.” 

The woman’s eyes scanned his face, searching for any sign she may have overstepped. Bruce keeps his face as passively neutral as he possibly can. 

“How are you holding up?” 

Janet reaches across to lay a comforting hand on his, and Bruce is reminded that this woman was a mother. She’d mastered the soft touch only mothers possessed. Her presence was calming, her eyes all knowing. 

“Decently. Or, as decent as possible in a situation such as this.” 

“Caroline,” Janet turned her attention to the younger woman. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes of privacy. There’s a kitchenette just behind that door,” She pointed somewhere behind his head. “If it’s not too much trouble, some tea would be lovely.” 

“Of course, ma’am.” Caroline dipped into a bow before shuffling off in the direction of the kitchenette. 

“Figured you’d appreciate some privacy.” 

“Thanks,” 

The words came out choked. He knew where this conversation was going. 

“How are your children faring?” Jack asked. 

“The last four years have been hard for them. Damian, my youngest, is still struggling with coming to terms with it all.”

“He was young, at the time?” 

“A month away from eleven.” 

Janet made a small O sound, her fingers tightening around the palm of his hand. 

“It’s hard. He wasn’t old enough to understand, and as he grew up, there were questions, but the topic became sort of taboo, so I don’t think he feels comfortable asking them.” 

“I get that. It took us,” Jack intertwines his hand with Janet's free one, “years to be open, I mean, really open, and just talk about everything. I’d like to say it gets easier, but it doesn’t really. We’re here, if you need anything.” 

“As lovely as it is to catch up, I doubt you’re here for a personal call.” Janet withdrew her hand, a knowing stare gracing her features. 

Behind him, a door opened, and the sound of Caroline’s heels filled the room.

Turning his head, Bruce noted the tray carefully balanced in her hand, steam trailing from the teapot, leaving a trail behind her as she approached. 

Caroline gently set the tray down on the coffee table between the seats before returning to her post behind him. 

Jack sent the woman an appreciative smile, one Bruce hoped, but doubted, she returned. 

“The Wayne Foundation has been meaning to reach out for a while now, but the time never seemed right. In light of recent events, I deduced that there was no such thing as a right or wrong time to show support,” he explained. 

“As I’m sure you read in my email, I believe in your work and want to do more to support it. This goes beyond the money as well. I want to support you as a friend. And as friends do, I will stand by your decisions.” 

Janet hummed. “What decisions are you referring to exactly?” 

“The Ball. I won’t be attending.” 

Jack’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “But if you announced this, the Ball will be practically cancelled anyway. You are the Ball!” 

“Which is why I won’t be announcing this prior. I don’t want people to make a decision based on what I’m doing. They should do something because it’s right.” 

Jack and Janet share a look. “While Bruce, buddy,” Jack reaches out to pat his thigh as he stands. “Then, as I already stated in my response, I see no reason to disagree.” 

“Wonderful,” Bruce clapped his hands together. “Caroline, the contract, please.” 

Caroline hands him a stack of papers, and the two men make their way over to Jack’s desk in search of a pen. Jack is chattering away about something as he produces a pen from some desk drawer. There’s a whirlwind of paper and ink, and something about making a copy. 

Then, they’re standing in front of the elevator doors saying goodbye. 

“Wait,” Janet calls out. “Caroline, you remind me of my son. Would you,” her voice breaks, “would you mind if I gave you a hug?” 

“Not at all.” 

Bruce watches on as Janet wraps one arm around his assistant’s waist and the other ‘round her neck. He thinks he might be hallucinating, but he swears that he sees Caroline’s eyes water.  

Caroline, Tim makes it just past the threshold of his apartment before he breaks down crying. 

He lets his body crumple to the ground as the sobs overtake him. 

Lying on his dirty entrance mat, Tim lets himself feel, truly feel, for the first time in years. He lets himself miss his parents. He misses his mother’s hugs and his father’s head pats. Misses days spent in the penthouse playing dress-up-dinosaur with his mother. Misses hearing stories about his parents' time abroad before his birth. Misses his Mama and Papa. 

They were right there, his brain unhelpfully reminds him. 

They were right there, and they didn’t know their son was there, too. 

Tim had wanted to scream for their attention. To shift back into his real form. He wanted them to look at him and see him. Not the fake people he has to pretend to be to be free. 

More than anything, he wants to be able to cry as Tim. 

If someone were to open his front door, they would find Caroline Hill lying on the front hall floor, not Tim Drake. Just unremarkable Caroline Hill. 

He wishes it were safe to grieve as Tim. But it’s not, and he’s paid the price of that mistake once already. So he stays as Caroline, but he lets himself feel like Tim. 

And because he feels like Tim, he cries like Tim. 

Tim cries until his throat is raw. 

He cries until his eyes are swollen, his nose stuffed, and his ear aching. 

His grief feels ugly. It always does. 

For some reason, the media likes to pretend that grief is a graceful emotion. The process of grieving is beautiful. It looks like a woman shedding a few tears over her lover's body or a man surrounded by flowers and cards as he lowers his child into the ground. 

In reality, grief looks nothing like that. Grief is lying face down on a muddy mat because his mother hugged you without knowing it was him. 

Grief is offhandedly hearing his father call a younger worker “kid” and knowing that he’d say that to him if he only knew. 

Grief is knowing that he’s just alive enough to miss them but not alive to have them. 

That all those things kids do with their parents are things that he’ll never have. He’ll never get to learn to drive with his father. Never get to watch his mother show him how to write a check. 

He tells himself that it’s not selfish to want birthday presents or for someone to place cute bandages on his boo-boos. It’s not selfish to want to get tucked in at night. 

He’s allowed to want things. Logically, he knows that. 

Tim wasn’t wrong for wanting to sleep with a teddy bear when he was a toddler. He wasn’t wrong for screaming when they tattooed those god-forsaken numbers on his neck. He wasn’t wrong for spending every night crying himself to sleep because he missed his parents. 

His crying dies out and becomes shaky hiccups. Tim wants to keep crying, but his body has nothing left to give. Still, he lets himself lie on the floor. 

In the darkness of his apartment, Timothy Drake closes his eyes and imagines what it would have been like if his mother had recognized him.

If his father had looked at him and known.

If he had been allowed to say—

Hi, Mom.
Hi, Dad.
I’m home.

And for a few devastating seconds, he can almost hear them answering back.

Footnotes

1. The Narrows is a neighbourhood located between Midtown and Downtown. It's known to be an impoverished area: return to text

.2 Le Bassin aux Nymphéas is a painting created in 1919 by Claude Monet. Its English name is The Water Lily Pond: return to text