Ever since the first night, Batman had been worried about the Minstrel making a reappearance. The tense political situation in the wake of the Sumpter Twins’ Shooting only made him even more nervous. Problem was the Batman can’t be nervous. The Batman can be concerned, cautious, uncertain, but never nervous. Perhaps if Batman could be nervous, then Comissioner Gordon would have taken his warning more seriously.

The Namzmiren case happened two months before Minstrel even appeared. The trial started days before his first attack. Still, Batman was certain that he would act in response to it. Minstrel’s crimes were racially motivated, so it seemed unlikely that he would ignore it. But maybe Batman was only so convinced that Minstrel would strike because he needed it to be true. Strategic minds like Batman’s couldn’t tolerate unpredictability. He needed to find a pattern in Minstrel’s behavior, just as he was compelled to find a pattern in Joker’s. 

The incident occurred on a Sunday night. Minstrel appeared on the news again, but he wasn’t alone. He stood upon a stage of purple curtains with a medical operating table on either side of him. Restrained against the tables were a man and a woman, neither seemed happy to be there. 

“Greetings citizens of Gotham.” Minstrel began with an exaggerated bow. “It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of a health crisis in our city; a significant increase of cancer cases reported among our citizens. This cancer is a particularly nasty one, and so we would urge you all to seek testing and treatment immediately. To help in our effort to increase public awareness of this disease, I’ve recruited two volunteers for a surgical demonstration. “

Minstrel walked behind the table on his right, and the camera focused on the captive woman restrained there. Her hair was a mess across her face, and her makeup was smeared by tears. Slowly, with the type of loving care one would give to a mother, Minstrel placed his hand upon her shoulder, then spoke with an equally nurturing tone.

“Now, now, Rachel, dear. It’ll be all right. But Mammy needs your help. Tell the good people what ails you.”

With a whimpering voice fighting back cries of terror, she stammered out her obviously scripted response. “T-t-Tounge cancer. There’s a lump on my tongue and it makes me tell lies.” 

The corner of Minstrel’s mouth ticked up in a sadistic grin. “Good, dear, good. Doesn’t it feel better to tell the truth? But don’t worry, Uncle R will remove that horrible lump from your mouth and stop those god-awful lies.” 

“Please.” She cried, her voice shaking with futile restraint, “I made a mistake. I never meant to-”

“Moving on!” Minstrel’s sudden, sharp cry made the woman’s body jerk in surprise. She didn’t finish her thought or even let out a wail. Her mouth stayed firmly closed.

Minstrel walked over to his other hostage, masquerading the same innocent concern and placing an equally tender hand upon the man’s shoulder.

“Do. Not. Touch. Me!” The man barked at Minstrel with the confident rage of someone that wasn’t tied to a table. Inside, he was probably shaking with fear, but his defiant, outward expression showed no sign of it.

“Calm down, calm down Oliver. It’s only me, your good pal and man-friday, George. Now, now my dear, tell the kind people about your affliction.” 

“When I get out of here, I am going to take off your head and use it to practice field goals!” The man snapped. 

Minstrel rolled his eyes, “We get it, you played football!” 

Minstrel moved his hand off Oliver’s shoulder, then proceeded to point down to the hostage’s crotch.

“You see, boys, girls, and those undecided, the problem is with little Olly. He’s growing ladies, but not in the way you’d want!” 

The Minstrel laughed at his own joke, then took a step away from Oliver. He returned to his initial position between the two operating tables. With a flourish of his wrists and a quick reach behind his back, the Minstrel pulled out two surgical gloves, and continued his monologue as he began to put them on.

“This cancer is not like ordinary cancers, so chemotherapy won’t work to treat it. It’s a cancer born in the mind, which causes later malignant growth within the body. Take Ms. Rachel Walters here, who’s been suffering from this cancer since she was in college.”

Rachel began to cry at her table, and Minstrel raised a shushing finger that she did not obey. He only shrugged and continued his story.

“Miss Walters was the victim of a sexual assault during her sophomore year. Or was she? She picked out her fellow student, Leon Anderson in a line up. She told tales of how he degraded her and called her a ‘white bitch’ during the assault. The accusations landed young Leon imprisoned without bail, where he awaited trial for half a year. He never saw trial, however, and committed suicide in his jail cell with an improvised knife. A private investigation concluded that his DNA didn’t match the suspect’s, a fact which the city was well aware of even while Mr. Anderson awaited trial.” 

“So the bitch lied and ruined a man’s life,” Oliver said with a meanspirited chuckle and a roll of his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“It’s not true,” Rachel said in a small voice. 

Minstrel smiled even wider, then eagerly walked over to Rachel. He leaned close to her face and lingered for a moment before he continued, “Is that true? I made a mistake? Well, take this as your moment to set the record straight. I would hate to spread misinformation on such an educational show.”

Rachel Walters took a deep breath. Then another. And then another. Minstrel glanced at his naked wrist then tapped it to signal his impatience. Walters shook her head ot show she understood, and explained, “My parents beat me for as long as I can remember. They were old fashioned and they--they didn’t want me becoming a whore. That’s what they’d always say, even when I was a little girl: ‘Don’t be a whore, Rachel.’ When I got to college I thought I could rebel and just live my life. I was drunk, I had sex without a condom, and when I woke up the next morning, I just knew.”

“The miracle of life,” Minstrel interrupted, “Oh I’m sure it was magical. Tell us all what it felt like.”

“It felt awful.” Rachel’s voice was filled with a mix of disgust and shame as she recounted the story, “All I could feel was fear and shame and anger, because I knew how my parents would react. Don’t you understand how my father would have responded? They already treated me like a prisoner before I even did anything! I had to-I had to get rid of it.”

“But you didn’t,” Minstrel said, “You gave birth to a bouncing baby boy on the twelfth night of August, some eight months later.”

“Even after I told my father that I was raped, he refused to let me abort it! I love my son, more than anything, but I was only nineteen years old. I was terrified about what would happen. I prayed to God every night, hoping that he would protect me and my unborn son, and deliver us from that awful house so he could grow up happily. And He did!”

The Minstrel yawned, “Yeah, yeah, God is good all the time, all the time God is good. Let’s get to the juicy bits. Why did you accuse Leon Anderson of raping you?” 

“I NEVER accused him of raping me! I never accused anyone! I went to the police and told them that it was a stranger. I tore my clothes and scratched my body up well enough to convince them, then said I was walking alone in the park when a stranger grabbed me. When they brought me into the line up, I tried to remind them that I didn’t see his face, but they pressured me! They screamed at me and said it was all my fault and that if I couldn’t identify the suspect then he’d walk free and rape someone else.”

“So you pointed to a random person?” Minstrel’s head twisted sideways. His wide eyes pointed at Waters with a burning curiosity that somehow seemed accusatory. 

“The way they were talking, I thought maybe one of the men in the line up had already raped someone else! I pointed to someone and their behavior changed completely--they were happy and spoke nicer to me. They congratulated me! I thought I’d maybe helped some other woman get justice. I prayed that the Lord would guide my hand, and the next minute they told me that I’d done an excellent job.”

Minstrel shook his head and sucked his teeth. “Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. Don’t you understand that none of that was your fault? It was the cancer warping your mind, convincing you that making up a fictional Black rapist was the proper way to handle the matter.” 

“I-”

Minstrel stopped her before she could continue, “And you did specify that he was Black! I’ve read the police report. You described your attacker as a Black male, in a university sweatshirt with the hood pulled down. He called you a white bitch and other slurs and took the cash from your purse immediately after. These details, the obsession with your fake attacker’s race, all of this is proof of the cancer.”

More tears began to rush down Rachel’s face. For a few seconds, she was a whining mess incapable of intelligible speech. She had to fight through her fear and sadness to plead for her life one last time.

“I’m sorry! I am! I apologized to his family after he died! His mother forgave me, and we even prayed together! It was my parents, not me, and everyone understood that. Why are you doing this?” 

Minstrel’s eyes widened and he recoiled in shock at her words. He looked at Rachel, then to the camera, then back to Rachel again. Back and forth his head turned, and each time it stopped he appeared more and more confused.

“Well,” he finally said after having enough of his own antics. “I know that I have an ass that won’t quit and contour flawlessly, but no one’s ever confused me for a beautiful Black woman before, least of all someone’s mama. I’m honestly flattered.” 

Minstrel turned away from Rachel, discouraging her from saying anything else in her defense. With a slow, dejected shutting of her eyes, she chose not to try anyway. Her captor took some steps closer to the second prisoner, Oliver.

Continued in Chapter 9.2