Ghost of a Man

   "You didn't see anything else? Just the hat and coat?"

   "No. Nothing."

   Bruce couldn't abide his own ineptitude. How could he have let the shooter escape?

   Crispus looked him in the eye. "Bruce. You know this wasn't your fault."

   Bruce shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

   Crispus sighed. "Alright, well, we'll have forensics go over the coat and hat; there's gotta be a hair follicle or something in there."

   Bruce walked around the circus area, now covered in police tape and lights flashing red and blue.

   "Thank you," a voice said from behind. Bruce turned to see Mr. Haly.

   Bruce frowned. "For what?"

   "If you hadn't followed him, we wouldn't have a single lead. But the detective tells me they've already got one thanks to you."

   Bruce didn't tell Haly the harder truth: that even if they found DNA evidence in the clothing the shooter left behind, they'd still have to find someone to test it against. It wasn't as though Gotham kept a DNA record of every person that ever came through town.

   "Did he have a family?" Bruce asked.

   Haly shook his head. "No. Harry never even really had a girlfriend; he was sort of a loner like that. We always told him he should find somebody... I guess now it's better that he didn't."

   Bruce walked back over to Crispus, who was standing along the quiet edge of the circus finishing up a phone call.

   "Anything new?" Bruce asked as Crispus hung up.

   Crispus forced the exasperation out of his voice. "Not in the last five minutes, n—"

   Crispus suddenly stopped in mid-sentence and flinched. When he opened his eyes again, he looked awkwardly at Bruce.

   "Hey, uh, I know this is kinda weird, but... could you tell me again what happined here? And what you saw?"

   Bruce eyed Crispus suspiciously. Nothing about Crispus' mannerisms or voice sounded right.

   "What's with the Boston accent? And what are you talking about?"

   "Look, I just need you ta'—"

   "What's wrong with you?"

   "Nothin's wrong with me, I jus—"

   "Who are you?"

   Crispus stopped. Clearly, this kid just wasn't going to buy it.

   "Alright. Listen, um... I'm not Crispus. My name's Boston. Boston Brand. Yes, like the city, and yes, my accent's ironic, okay?"

   Bruce's mind whirled. Crispus wasn't one for jokes, nor was he the type to have schizophrenia. This was something different.

   Crispus continued. "I'm... well, a ghost. I got killed back in August. I needed to talk to ya, so I hopped inside Crispus here and—"

   Bruce's eyes were wide with apprehension; his hand darted inside his pocket and pulled out his cellphone, finding the speed-dial buttons as fast as possible.

   "Hey, wait a sec," Crispus tried to say, but Bruce wasn't listening anymore.

   A voice spoke over Bruce's phone. "Hey, handsome."

   "I need you here. Now."

   A second and a half later, a whirl of sparkling violet light appeared and disappeared, leaving Zatanna standing in its empty wake.

   "What's wrong?" she immediately asked Bruce.

   He pointed to Crispus. "He says he's a ghost inhabiting this man's body."

   Zatanna narrowed her eyes.

   "Leaver siht tirips!"

   A transparent image of a second figure appeared over Crispus. It was a slender man, dressed in dark red, with a chalk-white shrunken face.

   Crispus shrugged. "Told ya."

   Zatanna's eyes went wide. "Bruce, this spirit is incredibly strong. I can't exorcise it without preparation."

   Crispus raised his hand. "Guys—"

   "What do you need?" Bruce asked Zatanna.

   "Uh, guys—"

   "I'll need a bucket of water, three bat wings, and a—"

   "GUYS!"

   Bruce and Zatanna stopped and looked at Crispus.

   "You don't need ta exorcise me. I don't wanna cause no trouble. I just need your help."

   Bruce and Zatanna exchanged a confused look.

   Wayne Manor stood like an ancient monument. While still within Gotham City limits, it stood separate from the rest of the city, atop a cliffside on the other side of Gotham river. It was huge; huge and empty. The massive rooms were full of paintings, sculptures, suits of armor, and ornate furniture—but rarely any people. Out of twelve bedrooms, only two were in use—one tiny room for Alfred, who kept it clean enough that no one would have known he was even there, and the gigantic master bedroom for Bruce.

   "Man, I'm dead an' I feel cold in here."

   Alfred gave the floating image of Boston a look crossed between indignance and fright. He was unaccustomed to having a visible ghost in his home.

   Boston had slipped back out of Crispus' body without a fuss and followed Bruce and Zatanna to Wayne Manor. Now that Zatanna had cast her spell on him, everyone could see and hear Boston even though he didn't have an actual body.

   Bruce leaned over his computer desk, typing at the keyboard.

   "Is this it?" he asked.

   "Yeah," Boston replied grimly. "That's it."

   Bruce clicked the video link.

   A one-ring circus, not unlike Haly's, was in the middle of a show.

   The announcer yelled into his microphone. "Introducing the one, the only, the daring DEADMAN!"

   As the audience cheered, a man in dark red spandex and a white ghost-like mask jumped onto the trapeze. Before he finished his second swing, however, a gunshot sounded off and "Deadman" fell to the ground.

   "That was you?" Zatanna asked.

   "Yeah" Boston replied. "That's why I look like this, I guess. I died in my Deadman outfit, so I'm stuck this way. Not that people can normally see me or anything."

   "But I don't get it," said Zatanna. "Spirits pass on immediately after death. Why are you still here? And why can you possess people so easily?"

   "It's, ah... it's a gift."

   "From who?"

   "Rama Kushna."

   A flicker of recognition went through Zatanna's eyes. "The goddess of karma?"

   "Yeah, somethin' like that. When I died, I saw these huge eyes lookin' down on me from the sky, and heard her voice. She said I had more to do in death than I did in life. I'm supposed to do somethin' here before I can pass on. Help people usin' my power, and try to find my murderer."

   "And you think that this shooter is the same one that killed you seven months ago,"

   "Yeah."

   Bruce turned to Zatanna. "This all sound right to you?"

   Zatanna shrugged. "Yeah, actually. It does. I think he's telling the truth."

   The frown that Bruce had been wearing since the shooting seemed to get worse. He stood up and walked to the nearby window.

   Boston looked at Alfred. "Was it somethin' I said?"

   Alfred shrugged, as if to say "he just does that."

   Zatanna put her arm around Bruce. "Hey. Are you okay?"

   "No. No I'm not. A man was shot to death in front of me, and I... I couldn't stop it, and I couldn't even catch him afterwards. Now a... ghost is in my bedroom, and... I just..."

   Bruce seemed frustrated at the very air in front of his face.

   "Nothing makes any sense!"

   "Bruce, things don't always have to make sense. Sometimes things just are the way they are."

   "No! There has to be a way. Somehow, there's always an answer. There has to be! There just..."

   "This isn't about the clown, or about Boston, is it?"

   Bruce didn't answer.

   "It's about Lois, isn't it?"

   Again, Bruce was silent.

   "You can't hold yourself responsible for her."

   "I should have just left her out of it."

   "She made her own choices; it's not your fault."

   Almost instinctively, Bruce looked up at the huge portrait of his parents hanging on the wall nearby.

   Zatanna moved in front of him. "Bruce, listen to me. You're not failing them. You're not. You're human, and that's all they'd ever want you to be."

   "I made an oath, Zatanna. And I plan to keep it."

   "You're sure you don' know anythin' about how the Socks did last season?"

   "Sir, honestly, I've never followed baseball in my life. Couldn't you just... float away and go find out for yourself?"

   Alfred was relieved to see Bruce return from his usual dramatic window-staring.

   "So, hey, Bruce," Boston said. "I had an idea about one way we could track this guy down."

   "What?"

   "Well... if I, uh, jump inside ya, our minds can link. Maybe between the two of us, we can piece together somethin' about the killer."

   "Uh-uh. No."

   "Aw, c'mon!" Boston pleaded. "You won't feel a thing."

   "Bruce," Zatanna said, "this might be the best way to find the shooter. Boston's not shown us any reason to doubt him yet."

   Bruce sighed. "Fine. Do it fast."

   Boston dove into Bruce's chest, completely disappearing inside him.

   Bruce and Bostons' memories swirled about them like a pool full of paint. Boston saw Bruce's perspective: the man standing in the tent supports; the gun barrel, a glint of metal. Bruce saw Boston's perspective: from high above the ring, looking down at a muzzle flash somewhere within the crowd—along with a similar glint of metal. Bruce had assumed that that metallic shine was from the gun, but now that he had two perspectives, it seemed to be something else entirely. Gradually, the image that both Bruce and Boston held in their minds merged, and they both saw the shining object: a steel hook where the shooter's left hand would have been.