Chapter Text
Harvey Bullock liked to think he was a decent guy.
Yeah, he’d taken a bribe in his day, maybe gotten a bit rough with a suspect once or twice. But unlike a lot of people he could name, he was in it for real justice. To help the little guy, as it were. He was one of the remnants of the old guard–the cops working under ol’ Pete Savage. Bullock promptly remembered the lunatic that’d killed him, and he felt sick–whatever Pete was, whatever he did , nobody deserved what Riddler did to him. To anyone.
And now, almost a year later, here he stood, looking at the murderer’s role model.
Sure, the Batman didn’t kill. Hell, from everything he said and did, he knew just as much as anyone that the Riddler was a psycho. But that didn’t change the fact that this guy was also insane. He ran around in a bat costume, beating the hell out of criminals, and Gordon was fine with working with the guy. Harvey respected Jim, but he could never respect whoever the crap this guy was.
“Where is he?” Batman asked simply.
Bullock’s lip curled in distaste. “Hold it there. The Commish hasn’t arrived yet, and ‘til he does, I’m in charge of this crime scene. And I’d rather it not get disturbed by a vigilante! So you can just wait there, ‘Vengeance’.”
The Batman walked right up to Harvey, staring him down. The two men stood there, a silent battle of wills, neither backing down.
And then Batman… smirked? “I’ll see you soon, Detective.” he growled, and in a dramatic turn stomped off into the darkness again, outside the Monarch Theatre.
“Friggin’ loony.” Bullock said, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket. But before he could light it, a police car’s headlights broke through the gloom, pulling up and parking nearby.
“Hey, he’s alright, man.” Gordon said, walking out and shaking Harvey’s hand. “And God knows we need him. Where’s the scene?”
“Just inside. Martinez’s with the poor bastard. Seemed like he got a, ah, ‘happy ending’ at least. Martinez is calling a 419 for some kinda drug overdose, too. Hookers and blow, am I right?”
“He didn’t take the drug. He was poisoned with it.” Batman growled, right behind him.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Harvey cried, whipping around and pulling his sidearm. “You maniac!”
“He does that, Detective. Stand down.” Gordon remarked, pushing past him and Bullock reluctantly holstered his gun. “You saying this was a murder, man?”
“Serial killing. Fourth victim.” Batman said shortly.
“Aw, shit.”
—
Rumi Mori was in a sad state. His face was flushed, his pants down and his shirt undone, his mouth hanging open, eyes still wide behind smudged glasses. Between his open lips lay a single sprig of poison ivy.
“The Toxicodendron radicans is a calling card.” Batman explained to the present officers. “There have been three other cases of a suspected overdose with this plant placed on their person.”
“Why hasn’t this ‘killer’ caught more eyes before now, then?” Martinez asked. “We ain’t you , but we ain’t dumb enough to miss calling cards.”
Batman shook his head. “Because we didn’t know they were calling cards at all. First victim was Jeong Li, a drophead who was found in a private greenhouse. The ivy was in his hand; it was assumed he’d grabbed it during his trip. Second victim; Hendra Alegria, known associate of the Penguin, found at the park. She’d fallen from the bridge, the ivy was growing nearby. And then–Doctor Fredrick Beauchamp, researcher for FloroniCorp, found dead in his lab. The ivy was beneath his microscope. All three victims had engaged in sexual conduct prior to their death, all three victims suffered from stress-induced cardiovascular failure accentuated by an unknown narcotic, all three had poison ivy on their person.”
“Just like Mori, here.” Gordon said softly. “Damn it. Some kind of black widow killer, then?”
“It’s more than that.” Batman replied. “The first victims were found in circumstances that explained the presence of the poison ivy. Mori wasn’t–the ivy was deliberately placed. Pre-mortem, judging by the urushiol rash. The killer wants us to know the previous ones were their work, even when at the time it wasn’t noticed. It’s a message of some sort.”
“Any clue what this message is , ‘Detective’?” Bullock sneered.
The Batman was silent for a few moments. “The first three victims… They were tests. Not for the law, but for the killer. They needed to know their weapon worked. They might just be victims of circumstance, but why the intercourse? Why the ivy…” The costumed vigilante turned, and looked Gordon in the eye. “Mori won’t be the last. The killer set up the clues to be obvious after they began going after their real targets . It’s a message-a threat. They want people afraid of them, now.”
“Shit, how do we stop them, then?” Gordon growled. “We got no way of knowing what this lunatic’s targets actually are! We can’t just keep chasing after their… Their fucking sloppy seconds ! How do we get ahead of ‘em!?”
“I don’t know. Not yet.” Batman said shortly. “But I will. You’ll know anything the moment I do.”
“Great. Real great. What was it people called you? ‘World’s Greatest Detective’? Bullshit.” Bullock spat.
“Lay off him, man.” Gordon reproached. “Martinez, escort our help outside, we need to get this guy to autopsy…”
“He’s already gone, sir.” Martinez supplied, somewhat snidely. And, indeed, the vigilante was simply no longer present.
“Gotta admit Commish, guy’s an asshole.”
“Shut up, Harvey.”
—
Alfred Pennyworth liked to hum to himself. It was always when he was alone, and when there was nothing that needed doing. Being a manservant to a billionaire family, one would think this left little such time, but Alfred was in fact very good at his job. When there was no meals to be prepped or cooked, when everything was dusted and orderly, when there no calls or visitors, Alfred hummed.
And when he took the elevator to the Batcave.
Of course, that wasn’t the official name. For the life of him, Alfred didn’t remember what the proposed name for the subway station was. But when young Bruce started his crusade, when he took the mantle of a bat, he’d commandeered the old, dank, almost cavernous site as a staging ground. A lair, of sorts. And what better lair for a Bat than a cave?
Alfred was–perhaps irrationally–very proud of thinking of the ‘Batcave’. But what to call the car? ‘Batmobile?’ Was the armored garb to be ‘the Batsuit’, the complex desktop setup the ‘Batcomputer’? Alfred thought of these trivial things, and he hummed. Because if he didn’t, he would start to think of less whimsical matters. His comrades from MI6, Thomas and his lovely wife Martha, and Bruce. His precious Bruce Wayne, closest to a son the old man had ever had.
Bruce wasn’t dead, of course, but Alfred knew, as the elevator opened and he looked. He knew, looking at the man taking in the computer screens with wide-eyed hyperfocused mania, that the Batman would kill Bruce Wayne. And he also knew Bruce would have it no other way–and so Alfred wouldn’t either.
“Master Wayne. Brought you breakfast.”
Bruce didn’t turn away from the screens, but Alfred saw him smile. “Thank you Alfred.” he said–gruff, but genuine. Bruce had learned to appreciate Alfred, after his near-death at the hands of Nashton. Not that Alfred couldn’t handle his charge’s brand of brusque anger, but… Well, this was healthier for them both, Alfred supposed.
“So. How’d the last evening treat you, sir?” he asked casually.
Bruce sighed. “Serial killer. Beauchamp wasn’t an isolated incident. Latest victim was Rumi Mori.”
Alfred’s lip curled. “Ah. I know that name. Your father briefly entertained doing business with him, but… The man was an arms dealer. He won’t be missed.”
“Maybe. But this is still a serial killing. The poison ivy–a calling card. Not a coincidence.”
Alfred exhaled, brow furrowed in thought. He looked at some of the data on the screen, read the details of the other victims. “That first man, Jeong Li. He was found in a greenhouse?”
“Yeah. I thought it was a drophead overdose. But it’s connected.” Bruce said, sounding angry. He never took his own mistakes well at all.
“Which greenhouse–That is, who did it belong to?”
Bruce typed some keys, finding the relevant information. “Publicly owned by a… Jason Woodroe.”
Alfred nodded. He’d thought so. “The man who runs FloroniCorp. A green-energy company–kept their noses clean if I recall. But Beauchamp–he was at their offices, wasn’t he?”
Bruce paused, in that way he did when something big has occurred to him. “And the park. The second victim–Hendra Alegria–she died in Holland Grove. That’s owned by the company too.”
“Too many coincidences. I agree.” Alfred said. “So our killer may be Woodroe, or someone working for him. I believe WayneTech ought to consider… Investing, in their green energy?”
Bruce nodded. “Is the suit ready?”
“Of course sir. Both of them, as a matter of fact. But this isn’t a job for the Batman, is it Master Wayne?”
“No. Let’s find Woodroe’s number; I think Bruce Wayne will want to meet him.”