(Author's Note: I'm not overly fond of this opening chapter, but I've decided to try and roll with it. Hopefully it's not overly detrimental to the experience.)
Hair combed. Tie straightened. Suit pressed. Shoes shined. Cane polished. Hat tilted. Hands washed. Teeth brushed. Stomach filled Yes. Yes, everything was right, everything was perfect, everything was ready. He was ready.
Time to do this.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" boomed the voice of Edward Nygma, as he burst through the door. "Please, no need to bow. It is only I: Edward Nygma, private investigator par excellence, here to help the poor and underprivileged boys in blue solve yet another in a seemingly endless series of crimes in this, Gotham City, Crime Capital of the World. Oh, Hub City likes to claim that it is the greatest human cesspool on this side of the globe, but we know the score, am I right?
Detective Thomas Drexel, known to pretty much everyone in the Gotham law enforcement and law aversion communities as a fierce adherent to the hardboiled school of police work, managed to direct an expression of equal parts anger, disgust and bitterness towards the former super-criminal. Really (Nygma mused) he seemed like the kind of man who would go well with a cigar, but of course only 25 of the 9,925 GCPD employees that were smokers actually smoked cigars. Of those 25, only 2 had the rank of detective: Frank Bartlow and Harvey Bullock. Moderately intelligent, compared to the drek that normally infested that particular institution. A solid C+.
Lt. Maria Chen, in the GCPD's recent tradition of pairing senior officers with diametrically opposite junior officers, was all the short, friendly Asian woman that Drexel was most certainly not. A recent transfer from Opal City, if memory served, which meant she had at least a modicum of experience with costumed criminals, if only Gotham was just a place where people put on funny costumes to play grab-ass with the local vigilante. Attractive? Possibly, and her test scores at the police academy...yes, definite potential. Not that he had time for personal relationships, Edward was quick to remind himself, he was far too invested in his career at this point in time. Besides, having a female counterpart was so passe.
Two police officers in an otherwise empty wasn't the best fanfare Edward Nygma ever had in his life, but he could make do.
"What are you doing here Riddler?" Drexel growled, practically spitting the words at him. "Here to confess, or are you running interference for one of the other Arkham freaks?"
"Now now, Detective Drexel, you know that I'm not the Riddler anymore, and I'm not engaged in any unsavory criminal activity. I'm a legitimate private investigator, here to lend my aid to the local constabulary on a case that's all. You can't blame a citizen of this amazing country for wanting to help his fellow man now can you?" He turned, tipped his emerald-green bowler to Chen. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Chen, I hope you're settling in alright. Moving to a new city is always a hectic process isn't it?"
Maria raised an eyebrow in confusion. "I don't remember telling you my name."
"My dear officer, this is Gotham City," Nygma replied, flashing a toothy grin, "Police business is everyone's business. As a crime-fighter myself I find it only natural to learn the names of the people I'll be working with." And their birthdates, addresses, bloodtypes, social security numbers…
"I don't care what you think you are, Riddler." Drexel growled. "This is a crime scene, which makes it official police business. Get the hell out of here or I'm hauling your ass in."
"Oh Detective, no need for that kind of talk. You boys in blue let him and his ilk get all the credit and adoration for stopping Joker and Clayface, and what do you get in return? A whole bunch of legal red tape and some unknown, unnamed mentally unbalanced masked vigilante roaming your streets who thinks he's above the law. Whereas I have only the best interests of the people of Gotham at heart, and I'm fully willing and able to help the police in whatever capacity I can."
"Until you decide to plant a time bomb on the Gotham Metro so someone will pay attention to your little word games."
"Oh please, that bomb would have only affected 15% of Gotham's subway tunnels, maybe 20%. It wasn't even particularly hard anyway…"
Drexel started forward, one hand raised in a fist (was that the other hand going for his gun?), only to run into the arm of Lt. Chen, who had managed to maneuver her way between the two with impressive efficiency. For a split second, it seemed as if the detective had forgotten that his partner was even in the room, before he returned to normality.
"Sir, I know I don't have a lot of experience here, but there's no harm in just letting him look, is there? I mean, Batman and forensics has already been through here, you said yourself there probably wasn't much point to sticking around. If we keep an eye on him, I don't think he'll be much trouble."
"Yes, you should listen to her Drexel, she's got a point." Nygma said, stepping around the two officers and into the apartment proper. "Although he misplaced trust of bats leaves much to be desired. It's practically Gordon-esque."
"...Fine!. "Take your look and get out, freak. You got five minutes before I throw your ass out on the curb or out the window, it makes no difference to me." Drexel snapped, then rounded on Chen. "And don't think I'm not going to bring this up with Gordon, Officer Chen. I don't care if you moved here yesterday, I find you sticking up for these nutsos again and I'll make sure your badge doesn't follow your ass back to Opal. You understand me?"
"Yes sir." Maria replied, though her tone implied otherwise.
After fishing his pockets for a second, Nygma pulled out a tape recorder and, and checking and rechecking it, pressed a large black button and began speaking into it. "Alright, this is the record of Edward Nygma, case #001, 21st of June, victim's name is...Hey, Drexel, what's the victim's name again?"
"Piss off Riddler."
"So rude! I was just trying to get you in on the case, give you a sense of purpose and all that. Victim's name is Erica Yeager, 2nd wife of renowned real estate tycoon/racketeer/eyepatch aficionado Alex Yeager. Estranged wife, if the rumours hold true, and it would explain Mr. Yeager's absence. Unless of course Alex Yeager is the murderer, though there's no way to tell at this point in time."
He glanced over at the two officers, hoping for some confirmation. When he got none, he shrugged and went back to studying the room.
"Scene of the crime is an apartment, penthouse suite to be precise, located on the 28th floor of Thorne Towers, 36 Barr St., Coventry. A property with no connections to Alex Yeager, worth noting. Living room is quite spacious, as to be expected, with the leftmost side leading to the bedrooms and windows lining the rightmost and opposite walls, the latter opening up to a patio. Furniture is the standard sterile white cubist excretions one associates with a showroom floor rather than a living space. Either Ms. Yeager didn't spend enough time here to warrant a change in furniture, or she had a horrible taste in fashion. Possibly both."
Recorder still in hand, Nygma rushed over to the patio. With quick but determined actions, he examined the cobblestone floors, the chairs, the railing that, ideally, kept the apartment occupants from plunging to their deaths into a crowded city street, with a look of quiet concentration on his face After a moment, he began to speak again.
"Patio contains one marble counter, three chairs and one hot tub, complete with bar. Used. The patio overlooks the old Gotham Opera House, now known as the Gotham Performing Arts Center. No known connection at this time, but it's best to check the victim's and Alex Yeager's history with the building, if any. God knows how many times the 'disgruntled former employee' angle has come up over the years."
Pausing for a second, Nygma crouched down to examine the patio door. Opening it. Closing it. Jostling it slightly. When he seemed to be satisfied with the results, he stood up again.
"The patio door locks from the inside, and appears to be undamaged. Cursory examination of the lock shows no sign of forced entry, exactly like the front door. Given that, the placement of the apartment itself forcing a limited number of access points, and the lack of any broken windows, I am lead to several possible conclusions. One: the murderer had access to a key, forged or otherwise, that he procured from Ms. Yeager or a member of the hotel staff. Or the killer was hotel staff, but that seems far too...pedestrian. Two: The killer possessed abilities which allowed him or her to enter the apartment with affecting the doors or windows. The list is numerous, but limiting it to those who operate in Gotham...Basil Karlo is certainly a candidate increases the number of possible access points considerably. The man leaves residue everywhere though, so an analysis of any carpet, faucets and so on should be to determine that. Or three: the killer was someone Ms. Yeager knew, whom she intentionally let into her apartment. A friend perhaps, or something more... interesting? She is estranged from her husband after all, which could possibly make her murder a crime of passion. An outburst from an angry lover, or perhaps revenge from a unhappy husband? More investigation is, of course, required."
"Not bad." Officer Chen remarked, avoiding the glare radiating from Drexel's direction.
"No, not bad at all, Officer Chen," Nygma replied, "The best. Now, where's that corpse?"
Reluctantly, the two officers directed the private investigator to the main bedroom, where the body had been found. As Nygma had expected, while the actual living area had been spartan to say the least, the bedroom was definitely...lived in, with all the amenities that he assumed women desired where they slept. Pillows like oversized marshmallows, luxurious comforters, lush shag carpeting, all a gleaming snow white. Some sort of complex relating to purity, perhaps? Married women usually didn't buy penthouse suites under the noses of their husbands and not engage in extramarital affairs, he assumed (much, much too busy for relationships). By covering the room in white, she convinces herself on a subconscious level that she is blameless, justified even, in conducting these trysts. If her husband were more faithful, if he wasn't always engaged in business, etc., she wouldn't have to do the things she did. She is the one in the right, at least in her own mind. The next night there'd they be at some posh gala, all smiles and laughs, the quick little signs of affection when they know someone's watching, even though ol' One-Eye still smells of that Thai prostitute he was spending time with on the limo ride over. These organized crime types were so obsessed with projecting an air of normalcy for some reason, it just made no sense.
And then there was the blood.
Unlike some of his associates, Barton Mathis, Victor Zsasz, Waylon Jones, Edward Nygma had never had much interest in the human body, or as it tended to be, in corpses. There was no real depth to death, no artistry that he could see in working with a collection of organs wrapped in an oily bag of skin. It was the mind that was interesting, the inherent challenge in life-and-death that made the work (former work, he corrected himself) worthwhile, not the end result. But then the Riddler had always been about more than common burglary, killing sprees and controlling worthless pieces of territory like most of the rabble that had come to infest Gotham City over the years. It was about raising people out of their ignorance, it was about testing their minds, changing their perceptions. The fact that he had stolen some things, threatened a couple lives, was simply a means to an end, a way to shock the populace out of the intellectual coma they had put themselves in from rampant consumerism. But no, they didn't think, all they did was react! Because they couldn't afford their little tchotchkes, because they were slightly inconvenienced while sleepwalking through their pitiful lives, suddenly he was branded as insane, as a criminal, like they had any business telling him what to do! He was the one who was right, he knew what was for the best! And if it it hadn't been for him-
"You done here, or should I bust your ass for loitering?" Drexel snapped.
"Hm? Ah, apologies." Nygma replied, then turned back to the crime scene. "Yes, well, with the body already taken away, it's hard to be exact, but someone with even a rudimentary knowledge of bloodstain pattern analysis could make a decent approximation of close attention Drexel, maybe you'll learn something for once."
Once more, Nygma pulled the tape recorder from his pocket and, stepping into the proper, began to speak:
"I have now made my way into the bedroom, where Ms. Yeager's body was discovered. Very white. The room, to be precise, white furniture, white paint, white carpet, white white white. Seems like even the well-to-do 'normals' of this city have their own idiosyncrasies, although what if anything Ms. Yeager's preferences had to do with her death it's hard to say. The most obvious theory at the moment, given the information I've gathered, is that Erica Yeager knew the person that murdered her, a least enough to let them into her apartment. She's a big name, or at least a rich one, so if she was trying to carry a boytoy off to her apartment there's got to be evidence of it. Hotel lobby is bound to have video footage. Additionally, where were the hired goons? Yeager is a typical mobster, it would make sense that he would have a degree of security around his loved ones, especially ones that get around. Better look into that."
"Anyway, from the traces of blood on the floor near the foot of the bed, I'd say that the killer struck her with a large object, most likely from behind, and then dropped it on the ground. Yeager fell forward and landed next to the nightstand, either dead or severely wounded, indicated by the pool of blood here. However, not content with simply shattering the back of this woman's skull, it seems the killer decided to take it a step further and decorate the room and walls with her blood. Typically, such drastic action would denote a strong emotional connection to the killing, for the victim or towards the act itself. Real serial killer type stuff. The work of an Arkham regular, or an amateur trying to break into the biz? Whoever it is, they definitely wanted people to know that Erica Yeager is dead in the most visually striking way possible. Are you a fan of Jackson Pollock by any chance, Ms. Chen?"
"That's Officer Chen, Mr. Nygma, and I believe you have what you wanted. Time to leave."
"Oh come on 'Officer', and here I thought you were going to be the cool cop! You really need to get out and have some fun, you know before you end up like Drexel here. I'd recommend the Iceberg Lounge, right next to the Cyrus Pinkney Museum. The guy at the door is a bit intimidating but just tell him Edward Nygma sent you, it'll be totally fine."
"Leave Riddler. Now!" Drexel barked.
"Oh relax Detective! I've more than proven myself haven't I? I can help you with the case, the GCPD can give me the thumb's up, maybe even take me on as a consultant, everyone wins right?"
A blink later, and suddenly the portly, middle-aged detective was far closer to Nygma than he would have liked, with his hand firmly locked onto the former criminal's neon green tie, forcing them to meet eye-to-eye. A bit intimidating, admittedly, but nothing Edward Nygma couldn't handle.
"Listen here you nutcase." Drexel's voice comes out like one of those swift harsh winter winds that rips through you without warning. "You enter a restricted crime scene, you insult an officer of the law, all to spout out the same crap we heard the Bat say hours ago. I don't care if you're reformed or trying to play to the long con, but if I see you around another crime scene - even if you're giving CPR to some old lady that was hit by drunk driver, I'm hauling your ass in. And trust me, you won't live long enough to have brunch with your buddies in that shithole they call a madhouse. Got it?"
"Sir, I think you're getting out of line h-"
"Do. You. Understand. Me?" Drexel yanked Nygma, the rank scent of tobacco and cheap beer heavy on his breath.
A nervous cough, once, twice. "Well, you don't have to tell me twice." Nygma mumbled. "I can tell when I'm not wanted."
With an almost animalistic growl Drexel pushed him away, almost knocking him into the blood-soaked bed of the former Mrs. Yeager. For a moment, Edward Nygma felt that same anger, the same rush of adrenaline he used to fell back in the old days, back before the world knew who he really was, and then it was gone, filling him with a feeling of hollow misery that slowly spread through his body like a poison.
"I know cannibals that are better behaved than you." But his mouth felt dry, the words seemed ethereal. "Better watch that temper though de-tec-tive. Wouldn't want to end up like Lyle Bolton, would you? I hear he's just now regaining feelings in his extremities after Joker pushed him out that window."
Slowly, calmly, Nygma made his way to the front door, pausing only to tip his hat to Chen before exiting the room and quietly shutting the door behind him. Almost immediately, Officer Chen turned to face the impassive detective, an expression midway between outrage and incredulity on her face.
"Are you literally fucked in the head? I'm pretty sure regular police work doesn't involve death threats, whether they're criminals or not."
"Just doing my job Chen." Drexel replied,pulling out a fresh cigar. "Guys like the Riddler, Killer Croc, Joker - they ain't human. They're animals. Think like animals, act like animals. Soon as you understand that, you'll figure out how the system works around here."
"I don't think I want to."
"Give it time kid." The sharp strike of a match being lit, as Detective Drexel expelled a cloud of smoke into the defiled bedroom. "You'll see."
