Chapter 20: With Dick and James 2

Bruce Wayne was never my father. How could he be? When he took me in, he was the same age I was now—still barely an adult himself. I know that I was supposed to see him as a dad, and I know that at times he sees me as his son—but really? He's a bit like an older brother...when things are going well. The truth is, as much as I hate it, there are moments when I look at Bruce Wayne and think, "Shit, I pissed Dad off."

"Tell it to me again," he growled out. I've known him long enough to know that voice didn't necessarily mean he was angry. But in the back of my head, I couldn't see past the gruff exterior—it felt like he was really upset with me. Worst of all, I felt like I deserved it.

"I went to see Minstrel today," I began. "I mean, I went to see James today. I'd been meaning to go see him ever since we cleared him of suspicion, and today I was finally free. But when I got to his office, I started talking to him about the past and I realized he didn't know who I was. Because he's not James Corvus."

Bruce nodded, "And you've confirmed that this isn't simply a case of mistaken identity."

It wasn't a question, it was more like an order. He was telling me that I should have confirmed that—that being absolutely sure that this James Corvus was the one I grew up with should have been step one in the process.

"Of course I did, Bruce!" I snapped. I couldn't disguise my frustration. I knew that I'd screwed up, but that didn't mean I would have made a rookie mistake like getting the wrong James Corvus. Defensively, I began to rattle off a list of all the reasons I knew that I had to be right.

"Oracle got his birth certificate, social security number, driver's license, passport, even his damn library card! On paper, the man that's sitting in that office right now is James Corvus!"

Bruce nodded, "And when you confronted him about this, what did he say?"

My mind flashed back to the office. I remembered the look on the fake James's face. His eyes were wide and scared, but his mouth was calm and his eyebrows were low. He didn't love having his secret exposed, that was undeniable, but I could also tell that he was relieved to finally have the weight of the lie off his shoulders.

James finally sighed and put his head into his hands, "Look, man, I'll just be straight up and tell you that I wasn't always James Corvus."

I scowled and folded my arms, "Then who the hell are you and how did you get my friend's identity?"

The fake James shook his head and held up two defensive hands, "I didn't steal it if that's what you're thinking. I bought it off a nig—off a dude that I met. Maybe that was the real James Corvus, and maybe it wasn't. I don't know enough to give you a clear answer on that. But I swear that I didn't do anything to your friend."

I scoffed, "Well since that promise is coming from someone living another man's life, it must be true."

The fake James scowled at me then. He raised a pointed finger and angrily replied, "I ain't living no one else's life but my own! When I bought this identity, it was a nobody. No transcripts, no credit history, nothing! James didn't go to Gotham University, I did. James didn't get this job and that nice apartment, I did. Far as I'm concerned, I am James Corvus and I like being James Corvus."

I scowled and gave him a silent glare. The righteous anger slowly faded from his body. The finger lowered, his face softened, and his body reclined slightly away from me.

I sighed, "So, how long were you in prison?"

He gulped. I wasn't sure whether he was surprised that I figured it out or that I'd had the balls to ask aloud. I'd hoped it wasn't the former case—it was painfully obvious that he'd been incarcerated before. Nevermind that the only people that would buy a new identity are ex-cons and undocumented migrants, I could tell from how he looked at me that he'd been through some rough horror. The fake James was scared of me, sure, but not physically—he knew that he could take me in a fight and he probably wanted to. But he was scared of what came after. This fake James had tangled with authorities before and lost, he didn't want to lose again.

"Four years," he confessed.

I whistled. People seriously underestimate how different the world can be for incarcerated people, even if they were locked up for a "short" amount of time, like four years. Four years is a presidential administration; economic transformation and war alone can transform the entire country in just four years. In four years, every radio station can go from playing one type of music to another. Neighborhood delis and homes can become yoga studios and AirBnBs in just four years. For everyone else, the change is slow. But to the person that was in prison—away from clocks and windows—it feels like an overnight change.

Of course, I'd never experienced any culture shock like this myself. I've never been completely out of commission for four whole years. But I've been a crime fighter since I was still a kid. I've gotten used to encountering confused, scared ex-cons that wander and stare at their transformed neighborhoods in existential despair. I'd seen everyone from Firefly to Condiment King weeping on street corners, saying, "They told me it'd be different, but I didn't think..."

"Yeah," the fake James said with a nod of his head, "they locked me up for four years. I stole some stuff, I sold some drugs, I shot at some people—never killed anyone, I just did it to scare them, mostly. I was a dumb kid hanging with dumber kids. If I'd never met your boy—or the guy that stole your boy's info—then I don't know what would have happened to me. I went in there when I was 14 and got out on my 18th birthday—there was nothing for me."

I suddenly became aware of the fact that I'd been grinding my teeth, so I stopped. I looked James over, hoping to find some sign that he was lying to me. I didn't know what I wanted him to lie about, I didn't even know if proof that he was lying would help me find my own James. It was simple: I was angry and didn't want to believe his story or listen to it. I wanted an easy way to close this chapter—to decide that the fake James and whoever sold him the information were just as guilty as Minstrel. I wanted to drag him through the office, bring him to Gordon, wash my hands of this whole thing, and get back to hunting Minstrel. I figured that was what Batman would do.

I stood up from my seat and didn't even bother saying anything to the fake James. I didn't reassure him that I wasn't going to report him, nor did I threaten to bust him if he ever slipped up. I was growing tired of the tough-guy theatrics, and I was growing tired of pretending that I wasn't just mad at myself. So without saying a single word to the fake James, I left.

*

After hearing the story, Batman nodded, "We'll have Oracle do a more thorough background check on the impostor. If he's telling the truth, learning who he is and how he got into contact with his supplier could lead us to the real James Corvus."

I nodded, "I already called Oracle, she's on it."

"Understood. I'll continue investigating on my end as well and debrief the family when I've stumbled upon anything useful."

The use o the word 'family' worried me. Batman usually referred to us as the 'team', and that could mean anything from a formally defined unit organized for a particular case, or whoever was in regular contact at the time. For him to say 'family', it meant everyone. Not just me and the other Robins, but Duke, Cass, Steph, Batwoman, Catwoman, Luke, maybe even Julia and Renee if we could find them. He didn't usually call in everyone at once. Even if the Joker was active, he'd only tell us all to be on alert unless we knew he were planning something really big.

"Minstrel's escalating," I agreed with a slight nod of my own head.

Batman grunted affirmingly then added, "Yes, that much is clear. We can only speculate about the personnel records he stole from the GCPD, but Gordon and Bullock have confirmed that everyone's expecting another attack."

"Shit," I whispered. "Can Minstrel even get to that many people at once?"

Batman grumbled, "That depends on what his plan is."

He didn't have to go into further detail. I'd seen the reaction to Namzmiren's death just as he had. There was a time where I wouldn't expect the average Gothamite to want to harm police, even the corrupt ones. But those days were gone, Minstrel did away with it.

I sighed, "It's James, isn't it?"

The silence that followed was excruciating. I could see Bruce's face tighten as he struggled to select the right words to reply with. Would he admonish me for not seeing this sooner? Or would he remind me that we couldn't be certain of anything until more evidence was available? I didn't know, and that bugged me—I didn't like not knowing things whenever Bruce was around.

Bruce locked eyes with mine, and I felt a cool somber tone radiating from his gaze. "Dick, perhaps you should get away from this case."