Chapter 17: Chapter Sixteen: Confused Gordon

In the Pokémon anime and games, Pikachu is by no means a powerful Pokémon; its popularity stems largely from its cute appearance.

Whether in the anime or the games, Pikachu is unquestionably the mascot of cuteness, but its actual combat ability is quite average. Especially in the games, it can even be called a liability—compared to powerful and magnificent legendary Pokémon, Pikachu is indeed adorable, but that is its only advantage.

But the Pikachu that Shiler encountered is far more than simple; it possesses intelligence comparable to, or even higher than, most humans, wields Pikachu’s Electric-type abilities, and seems to have other skills as well.

It is immune to Shiler’s telepathy, and the fear gas only knocked it off its feet. By volume, the amount of fear gas Shiler used to set his trap that day should have driven a small creature like Pikachu into madness—but Pikachu merely sneezed a few extra times.

And it could slip into Shiler’s room while he slept, unlock his door, and climb onto his bed. At its height, Pikachu couldn’t even reach the doorknob by jumping; to pick the lock, it would at least need to drag over a chair.

How this creature, shorter than a human’s shin, with stubby limbs and a round body, managed to drag a chair in the middle of the night, hop onto it, pick the lock, open the door, and slip beside Shiler without him noticing—no one knows.

Yet this Pikachu is clearly far more cunning than Shiler imagined, and more importantly, hearing its Deadpool-like voice made it impossible for Shiler to take it seriously, as he would with Batman. Without seeing its face, Shiler always felt as if a man in a red-and-black spandex suit was muttering beside him—a scene that sent chills down his spine.

But soon, Shiler had no time to worry about Pikachu; Gordon sent him a text notifying him they had gathered solid evidence of Jonathan’s crimes and were about to arrest him.

The arrest of Jonathan had nothing to do with Shiler; what he worried about was never again having access to fear gas, so he had to hurry and take Jonathan’s remaining stock.

Jonathan, the future Scarecrow, was truly unlucky.

Upon learning Jonathan was about to be arrested, Shiler took as much as he could—Jonathan, still young and inexperienced, had no counter-surveillance awareness. He was utterly devastated: who would steal his fear gas?

After gaining teleportation, stealing fear gas became even easier. Shiler simply teleported continuously from a spot over a hundred meters from the small chapel on Moss Street, appearing directly in its basement, taking what he needed, and vanishing without leaving a trace.

Batman also participated in the arrest operation; with his superior infiltration skills, he returned to the lab and discovered Jonathan had built a fear gas sprayer. He advised Gordon to let him arrest Jonathan, otherwise the spray gun could drive every officer involved and all Moss Street residents insane.

Gordon didn’t fully trust this spandex-clad oddity, but he had his own reasons.

Every officer in Gotham PD was a talent—except him; nearly all were eternal slackers, arriving at crime scenes only after everything was over, useless in any real operation.

The combat capability of such a team needed no explanation—a single fear gas sprayer could incapacitate half the police department.

Don’t expect help from his superiors; Gordon had long seen through them. The current commissioner was cozying up to certain criminal factions—he didn’t want another headache, not when a few dozen civilian deaths were just a minor distraction from his own profit schemes.

Gordon felt helpless and defeated. The only person he could rely on was Batman.

Though Batman was immature now, Scarecrow wasn’t much better. They were two novices brawling—ultimately, Batman still won.

He subdued Jonathan with a tranquilizer dart while Jonathan was conducting experiments in his lab.

And Batman’s suit camera clearly recorded how Jonathan committed his crimes.

Despite this irrefutable evidence, low-ranking Gordon was pushed out of the case; his superior took over, swiftly filing charges and scheduling a trial—this was, after all, a decent political achievement.

A university professor, the mastermind behind dozens of murders? In any other region, this would have dominated newspaper front pages for days as a bizarre major case—but in Gotham, though still significant, it barely filled a single column.

Seeing no mention of Gordon or Batman on the front page, only lavish praise for Gordon’s superior, Shiler knew this dark city had gained another disillusioned soul.

Gordon, this good cop, still had a long road ahead.

To Shiler’s surprise, Gordon soon came to him.

In the psychology counseling room at Gotham University, Shiler poured Gordon a cup of coffee. The young detective, still relatively young, looked exhausted; he sipped the hot coffee, and his complexion improved slightly.

He said: “I know my visit is abrupt, Professor. But regarding Jonathan’s case…”

Gordon hesitated, then Shiler said: “Let me guess—the trial proceeded smoothly, but something went wrong during sentencing, correct?”

Gordon clenched his fists on the table, his face dark: “That damned murderer is a chemical Ph.D. You know what that means in Gotham—someone doesn’t want him executed, but wants to declare him mentally ill, get him acquitted, and put him to work for them.”

Shiler sat across from him and said: “Indeed. A genius-level chemical Ph.D.—if he can produce even one new hallucinogen, his employers could make a fortune.”

Gordon shook his head: “It’s far more complicated than that. The drug they want Jonathan to develop may be even more dangerous.”

“If they invent drugs, they only make pocket change from addicts. But if they truly create a virus that can control every citizen of Gotham, the wealth they’d gain needs no explanation,” Gordon said.

“Someone leaked information about the fear gas?” Shiler asked. The gas’s exceptional effects were why certain people recognized Jonathan’s value.

Gordon looked at him, hesitated, then said: “I mean no offense, but I need to confirm—have you seen anyone suspicious lately?”

“I can tell you clearly: I’ve told no one about this. It benefits me nothing. As a university professor, having a murderer as a colleague is already disgraceful. Any further association would ruin my career,” Shiler said.

“Then…” Gordon interlaced his fingers. “That night, I heard you call the spandex-clad man Bruce. He’s Bruce Wayne, isn’t he?”

“About that, I can tell you nothing. You should ask him yourself—not come to me.”

“I know what you’re worried about,” Shiler said. “As Gotham’s largest business tycoon, Bruce Wayne isn’t necessarily untainted by dirty deals. If he finds out you’re investigating this, you’ll die painfully. That’s your thought, isn’t it?”

Gordon said: “Jonathan’s statement says someone stole most of his fear gas. That spandex-clad man is my prime suspect—he’s far too suspicious.”

Shiler felt a pang of reflection; content never shown in the comics now seemed intriguing. Gordon and Batman, this legendary duo, weren’t always trusting allies—Gordon had deeply doubted the bizarre vigilante.

It wasn’t strange. Any normal person would find it hard to accept someone in a black spandex suit, with pointy ears, prowling Gotham at midnight—such behavior hardly seemed heroic.

Shiler said: “Have you ever considered he might suspect you just as much?”

Gordon sighed. “Actually, he has more reason to suspect you. If he truly is Bruce Wayne, I know the Wayne child never stopped investigating the old case. The Waynes’ deaths were suspicious—I reviewed the file. Too many inconsistencies. If young Wayne is Batman, he’d trust no cop—not even you.”

“The Gotham Police…” Gordon sighed. “I know the cops here are just decorations—useless for anything real.” He looked defeated, sighed again, sipped his coffee, and fell silent.

Shiler said: “As a stone in a swamp, you’re already hard enough. Don’t expect anyone to pull you out. Better to roll bigger and bigger—when you fill the entire swamp, it becomes no different from asphalt.”

“Is that how you see it? Do you think I should keep walking this path?” Gordon sounded lost.

It was no wonder he was depressed. He risked everything, poured endless effort into solving the case—only to have his credit stolen. He only wanted justice, but now people were letting a murderer who slaughtered dozens of civilians go free for profit. It was a crushing blow.

Shiler smiled. “Detective Gordon, you need a psychological session. Lucky for you—I’m a psychologist, and I don’t charge.”

Gordon forced a smile. “I’ve seen your resume, Professor Shiler. Having a renowned psychologist like you treat me? Consider it my year-end bonus. Either way—thank you.”

Shiler said: “No thanks needed. Helping a good cop of Gotham is my honor.”

Gordon’s smile grew even more forced; he spoke like a sigh: “A good cop? Maybe…”