Bruce entered the Gotham City Police Department, or GCPD, looking over the cold steel and painted brick construction. People in uniform hurried here and there while carrying out their duties, shuffling paperwork or escorting uncooperative detainees to their accommodations behind bars.

The front desk was to Bruce's left, and a bored officer behind the counter sat up in his chair, almost spilling his coffee as he took his feet down off the desk. The officer's balding head was barely covered at all by a wispy comb over of pale brown hair. The uniform he wore was covered in stains and crumbs from his eating at the desk, and its size was straining to the limit as the officer hadn't fit into it properly in years.

"How can the GCPD be of service?" the officer asked in a tone clearly stating disinterest.

"I'm looking for Detective James Gordon," Bruce answered.

"Lieutenant Gordon was called to a meeting with the Mayor," the officer reported around a bite of doughnut before gulping it down with a large swallow of coffee. "He should be back any time if you want to wait."

"Thanks," Bruce accepted. He was about to sit down on the wood bench opposite the front desk, but a liquid spill on the seat changed his mind as he didn't know what it was and had no intention of sitting in the middle of it. He opted to stand.

Upon closer inspection, the paint on the walls was in sad shape. It was chipping in several places, peeling off in long strips in others. What paint wasn't coming off was covered in grime, dirt, and the markings of the criminals who'd been left unattended with pens or pencils.

The bulletin board was crowded with notices and wanted sketches of criminals, but the number of items stuck to the board was almost too many for the pushpins to hold. The notices were stacked one on top of the other and finding a specific item would require taking down a dozen or more dispatches tacked over the ones underneath. It was a model of inefficiency and carelessness. Bruce wondered how the police could function in such an environment.

The front doors burst open and a police officer with coppery brown hair, streaked with white, strode inside. His long coat billowed behind him like a cape due to his brisk pace. A mustache covered his upper lip, but the white of his hair had yet to encroach on it. Even after many years, Bruce recognized the man who had coaxed him out from behind the dumpster when his family had been killed.

"James Gordon," Bruce called out before the policeman could rush past him.

"Yes?" Gordon responded as he halted and looked in Bruce's direction.

"Perhaps you remember me," Bruce said, extending a hand in greeting. "I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Wayne," Gordon said in awe, looking Bruce up and down. He accepted the offered hand and shook it firmly. "I haven't seen you in years. You look good. What brings you here?"

"I've been thinking about a career in law enforcement," Bruce explained. "I was hoping you might be able to provide me with some information on what's involved in being a cop."

"Certainly," Gordon agreed. He was about to say something else when the desk officer broke in.

"Lieutenant," the desk jockey called out. "You wanted to be notified if we had a break in the Harris case. An anonymous tip reported the suspect in the vicinity of the Beckman Hotel at Fifth and Drake."

"You want to know what it's like being a cop?" Gordon asked Bruce as he changed directions and headed back toward the door. "Why don't you come along and see it for yourself?"

"I'm with you," Bruce agreed, and he fell in step with Gordon, following him downstairs to his car.

"What have you been up to all these years?" Gordon asked as he climbed into a brown, four door car and leaned over to unlock the passenger side.

"I've been doing a lot of different things," Bruce admitted without really answering the question. He climbed in the car and buckled the seatbelt. "Some friends of mine suggested I might try my hand at being a detective or something. I'd like to help improve Gotham so what happened to my parents won't happen to anyone else."

Gordon nodded his head in solemn agreement as he started the car and pulled out of the garage and into traffic.

"What's the Harris case about?" Bruce asked to change the subject.

"A few weeks ago, a criminal named Harris was on trial for killing three people during an armed robbery," Gordon explained. "Harris broke jail, and a security camera spotted him kidnapping a young girl. Neither of them has been seen since, until the tip we just got this morning."

"How do you intend to find him?" Bruce inquired. "You can't search every apartment in the Beckman hotel."

"We won't need to," Gordon denied. "If the manager can recognize our suspect, he can point us to the right room."

Gordon parked at the corner in front of the dilapidated hotel. Both he and Bruce spotted the police car already sitting at the curb out in front.

"Wait here," Gordon ordered, climbing out of the car to speak with the officer already on scene. Bruce rolled down his window to listen in on the conversation.

"Officer Cunningham," Gordon said to the policeman. "What are you doing here?"

"Got a tip a fugitive was in the area," Cunningham replied.

"Why are you still outside if the fugitive is inside the hotel?" Gordon demanded.

"I'm waiting for a warrant," Cunningham answered. "We can't go in without one."

"We have a credible tip he's in the area, and we only need the manager to point us toward him," Gordon told the interfering officer. "We don't need a warrant in pursuit of a fugitive."

"You do in this case," Cunningham countered, and Bruce noticed the officer said you instead of we, separating himself from Gordon. "The manager is nowhere to be found, and Judge Leeson gave specific orders that if any officer enters the building without a warrant or probable cause, the case will be thrown out."

"We only now got the tip, how did Leeson find out?" Gordon demanded.

"It doesn't matter," Cunningham denied knowingly. "You want your fugitive, get a warrant."

Cunningham sat on the hood of his patrol car, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling smugly at Gordon.

"What's going on?" Bruce asked when Gordon came back to their car fuming mad.

"Judge Leeson is for hire to anyone who has the money to put in his pocket," Gordon replied. "I've never been able to prove it, but his ethical deficiencies are well known."

"We have a known killer in possession of a hostage inside this building, and we can't even go in to look around?" Bruce asked in utter disbelief.

"It may be stupid, but it's the law," Gordon pointed out. "We'll have to wait."

"He could be murdering her in there right now!" Bruce shouted.

"Don't you think I know that?" Gordon shouted right back. "If I go in there without a warrant, Leeson will call it an illegal search and throw out any evidence we find. Even if the girl is dead and Harris has her blood on his hands, he'll still walk."

"You need a warrant, but I don't," Bruce said in a calmer tone. "I'm a civilian stopping by for a visit. If I find anything, I can scream for help, giving you probable cause."

Before Gordon could object, Bruce unbuckled and exited the car, striding purposefully toward the front doors of the hotel. Cunningham looked hard at him in passing but didn't attempt to stop him.

The front door stuck slightly, and Bruce had to pull harder when it refused to open on the first attempt. The interior of the hotel was as run down as the outside. The carpet was faded, worn, and covered in stains; the edges were fraying badly, leaving wispy strings around the edges like a fringe. The manager's desk for checking in and out was on his right, but the wood paneling under the warped plank of the countertop was dented, scratched, splintered, and Bruce found a hole resembling one made by a bullet.

The hotel was the kind where they didn't ask any questions so long as the customer had money to pay for the cheap rooms and basic services. Although it ensured a steady stream of customers, the policy also attracted the most unsavory kinds of people.

Bruce glanced over the counter to the inside area. There was no sign of the manager, but Bruce did find a few dark spots on the carpet. Ducking behind the counter after checking to be sure no one was watching, Bruce took a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted one of the spots. When he lifted the square of cloth from the mark, he discovered it had turned blood red.

Pushing the door open to the manager's office, Bruce found out why the man wasn't on duty. The dead man lay on the floor in a pool of dark red seeping into the carpet. Bruce considered calling Gordon in immediately, but he realized he couldn't. With Cunningham still outside, Gordon would be limited to investigating only the murder of the hotel manager, and Harris would most likely kill his hostage and escape before they could intercept him. Bruce understood the only way to protect the kidnapped girl was to hunt for the killer himself.

Inspecting the front desk registration book let him see which rooms were in use, even though most of the names were most likely fake. A quick survey of the available keys behind the desk revealed one room key was unaccounted for. He ignored all the rooms where people had signed in and taken a key, concluding the missing key was appropriated by the killer of the manager. Bruce hoped the murderer he was chasing was Harris and not a different person.

Heading up the stairs, he made his way toward the room with the missing key, number 204. The wood steps were old and creaked slightly when he put his weight on them. Rather than move slowly in an attempt to remain silent, Bruce leaned over the railing and snatched a newspaper from a lamp table, tucking it under his arm and hurrying up the stairs as if he were just one of the residents. He thought if someone spotted him creeping around, they'd know he was up to something, but by being obvious, he hoped to cloak his true motives by giving the wrong impression.

On the second floor, Bruce opened the newspaper and pretended to be reading it, but his eyes were scanning the area around him from behind the cover of his paper. As he approached room 204, he noticed a dark smear on the carpet, the killer having left a trail of evidence from his crime.

Bruce considered the options for how to get inside the room without endangering the young girl being held hostage. If he went in by way of the fire escape, it would give him the element of surprise, but the killer could easily flee out the front door. Kicking his way in the front was certainly more direct, but it was also stupid since he didn't know what might be waiting on the other side. If Harris was in a back room with the hostage, he might kill her before Bruce could even get there.

Since he was already using the newspaper as cover, Bruce decided to keep going. Holding the paper in his left hand as if avidly reading an article, he pulled his keys from his pocket and rattled them loudly against the lock.

The door was yanked open by an irate man wearing a stained T-shirt and torn jeans. He hadn't shaved in several days, leaving uneven stubble on his chin, and his dark hair looked as if it hadn't been cleaned, ever. The scowl on his face seemed to be a permanent feature.

"What are you doing in my room?" Bruce demanded.

"It's not your room, numbskull," the man snarled. He snatched the paper out of Bruce's hands and shook it at him. "Stop reading the stupid paper and pay attention to where you're going. Now, get lost!"

The thug grabbed for Bruce's keys and made to throw them down the hall. It was in that moment, when both of the man's hands were occupied, Bruce chose to attack.