He stares at me as I inspect him, but doesn't complain. He can't. He blew his brains out.
The body is odourless. Still far too fresh to smell of decay. So fresh in fact, that it's barely cold. His skin is tinted slightly blue, but mostly it's just pale white, and solid like marble. His limbs sit stiff, legs stretched out in front of him and his arms hanging at his sides. The gun is still clasped in his right hand. The blood splatter behind his head is still wet, but darkening as it slowly dries.
"His name was Adam Swift. He was a guard at Arkham Asylum," Robin tells me, kneeling at my side.
I look into the dead man's eyes and wonder what he must have been thinking in his last moments as he put the gun in his mouth. I imagine for most people it's usually along the lines of 'goodbye, cruel world'.
"Any history of mental illness?" I ask Robin.
"None. All Arkham employees undergo psychotherapy before being inducted. After Harleen Quinzel went off her rocker they made it mandatory to repeat the process again every four months to determine whether they are stable enough for the job."
"Huh. Because how many people go crazy only after they've gone to the nuthouse?"
"His co-workers all say he seemed happy enough though he mostly kept to himself. Always came in on time, didn't cause any problems. The commissioner is gaining access to his files as we speak. Though I don't think they'll enlighten us any," Robin says.
I gesture to the ring on Adam's left hand, "He was married. Any kids?"
"Two. The eldest, a boy, is six, the girl is four."
"And look at this apartment," I say, now gesturing around the room, "sure it's a bit small for a family of four, but it's stable. Certainly middle to upper class. A good life and no known history of mental illness. What does that tell you?"
"Normally it would point to foul play," he agrees, "but I looked and there are no fingerprints on that gun aside from his own and the bullet is a match for that make and model."
I stand upright and slowly circle the office. It's tidy, consistently organised. Definitely not the standard conditions for a supposedly hysterical, suicidal man. I've seen manic depression at work before. I've seen it up close and personal, and it's chaotic and dark. My mother, in those last few weeks, wouldn't get out of bed. Something I couldn't see kept her held captive there, holding her down like a weight pressing down on her chest. She would have to fight against the invisible ties on her wrists to escape and I think that pain eventually led to her decision to stop trying. In her last few days she would lay there staring up at the flaking paint on the ceiling, as if the random patterns it created were ever-changing pictures. I tried to see the same story they were telling her but I couldn't see beyond blank pages no matter how hard I looked. I wanted to see through her eyes so I could untie those ropes and save her.
What I learned as a child is that we never suffer the same way, and I've seen it come in many forms. But I have never seen suffering like this. Which makes it hard to believe it exists here at all.
"Sometimes people just snap, you know?" Robin says, watching me.
I peruse the few books he kept neatly displayed on the bookshelf. Turning around, I inspect the family photos he has framed on his desk, his children smiling back at me. Then I stop and read through the organised pile of paid bills. This is normality at its finest.
That's when I reach the desk chair that is no longer facing the desk. Instead it faces the body, faint scuff marks on the floor tracing the path it was dragged along. It doesn't fit the organised space around it. I inspect the fabric and find stains that aren't blood or dirt, but they certainly aren't food or drink. Can't be. Considering the state he kept the office in.
"Seems to me Adam had an audience when he decorated the walls with his brains," I murmur, cutting the material of the chair around the marks, tucking the samples away to examine later. If I can identity the substance then perhaps I can discover who our unwelcome guest was or at least where they have been.
Robin places his finger over his earpiece, focusing on whomever is speaking to him and then he turns to me with urgency. "Another Arkham employee just committed suicide."
"Gunshot like this one?"
He shakes his head and leads me to the door. "Worse. The guy leapt from his tenth storey window to his death."
The pavement has been blocked off by police tape and officers circle the space, trying to keep the hungry reporters at bay but the cameras continue to flash. Their voices shout over one another, asking undiscernible questions with no answers. As Robin and I approach, I see the blood on the cement, bleeding into the cracks. Then I see the body, the back of its skull completely crushed in from where it landed. It isn't a pretty sight; more like a sack of flesh filled with shards of bone than a person.
Two officers stand together, barricading us from the crime scene before the commissioner calls them off irritably. I can see his fingers itching for a cigarette as he lifts the tape up over our heads. Instinctively, the other officers back away, intimidated by our presence but are still unwilling to argue. Yet I see hands held over weapon holsters, prepared to arm themselves if they must. Being Batman hasn't done much to heal my relationship with the police department, it seems.
"Neighbours say they heard terrified screaming and the shattering of glass as furniture was thrown around. That was before hearing the window breaking as he ran headlong into it," Gordon informs me as I bend down beside the body. It's difficult not to step in the ever-growing pool of blood.
"Any ties between this body and the first?" I ask.
"Aside from working at Arkham Asylum, nothing. The two have never even worked alongside each other. Completely different hours."
"This suicide is much more gruesome than the first," Robin says, looking up towards the shattered window above us.
"You've got that right," Gordon says gruffly and gestures to the body, "the guy's eyes are completely torn up. Take a look at them… Or rather, at what isn't left of them."
I carefully examine the body, gazing into the bloody sockets where his eyes once were. His cheeks are covered in deep scratches around the gaping holes. Then I look to his hands, his fingers are smeared in his own blood and gore. He had clawed his eyes out himself. Not exactly what one would call a standard suicide.
"Robin, take samples of his blood, skin, and hair. Then take swabs from under his nails. Perhaps he scratched at more than his eyes," I instruct and try to enter the apartment complex only to feel Gordon's hand grab my arm.
"I can't allow you to tamper with the body," he says sternly, "I'm already putting my head on the chopping block by letting you into the first crime scene unsupervised. Or at all for that matter. Hell, you weren't meant to come here until I had the space cleared."
I make no attempt to shake off his grip. I don't need to. "You called us. Which tells me these cases shouldn't be left in your incompetent hands. So I suggest you let go of me. That is if you want to keep your hand."
He loosens his grip and then finally let's go, allowing me to step around him into the building. The reporters' cameras flash faster still and I can picture the headlines now: 'Commissioner Gordon and His Tense Relationship with the Bat' or 'Gotham's Commissioner under Batman's Thumb.'
Wouldn't it interest readers to know that their supposed straight shooter answers to me: the vigilante justice so many of them oppose. I can imagine their surprise if they were to discover all that he done. Just how far he will go for Batman. So far as to withhold the truth of those sewer explosions. It's because I'm in on the secret that he chooses not to threaten me. He's afraid I'll expose him.
"Bruce won't appreciate you talking to him like that," Robin whispers as he walks into the victim's apartment, tucking numerous samples into his utility belt.
"Gordon's a big boy, he can handle it," I say simply. "Besides, I don't give a damn what Bruce thinks."
Robin stops and looks around the room, raising an eyebrow at the state it's in. It's the exact opposite of the last crime scene, the furniture thrown around and glass shards scattered all over the floor. Pages are spread out in disarray and the curtains have been torn to shreds. There is also blood everywhere. Smeared along the wallpaper and sprayed over the carpet.
"That explains the shards of mirror I found embedded in his knuckles," Robin says and indicates to the broken, bloody mirror hanging crookedly on the wall.
"Punched the mirror and then gouged out his own eyes? Seems to me there was something he really didn't want to see. Bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"
"The door was broken off its hinges from the outside," Robin is ignoring me, focusing his attention instead on the room. "These dirt treads indicate only one person entered the apartment. The victim most likely started throwing objects at the intruder, as they often do before angling themselves towards the kitchen."
"Why the kitchen?" I question, moving to inspect it. But the kitchen is completely untouched.
Robin points to the phone, "Most people try to get a hold of a knife to defend themselves with. Then they try to call for help. Something or someone stopped him from getting that far."
"Somehow a home invasion turned into a cheap horror flick," I say, "what gives?"
Robin shrugs, "Let's find out."
"His blood is laced with Scarecrow's toxin," Robin says finally as he reads over the test results. "But the first victim is clean."
I don't look up from my own work as I try to identify the stains found on the first victim's desk chair. Unfortunately, I don't have the greatest understanding of chemicals as I've never before had a reason to learn about them. It is admittedly frustrating that a thirteen year old kid is smarter than I am. Better educated. It makes me wonder where I could have ended up if I had grown up elsewhere. If I had been raised differently. For the time Robin has been under the Wayne's roof must have been kind to him, intellect wise. Kind enough that he could really build a life for himself away from this city if he ever decided to. People like me don't have that luxury. I'll always be trapped here unless I steal enough to make my way forward, but why would I? There's no point if I'll only repeat history someplace new.
"Can you show me the sample results?" I sigh finally, admitting defeat. I'll need an existing formula that I can try to match my samples to, if there are in fact any similarities at all.
Robin makes no comment as he passes the report to me with the chemical names and balances, with images of the microscopic view of the substance. Then he waits patiently as I compare them, making no attempt to assist. He must understand that I need to do this alone. After all, I'm not exactly the sort that asks for help.
"I can't be certain but these seem like a match to me," I say, "same squiggly lines under the microscope. They kind of look like the inflatable arm flailing tube men they have outside car lots."
"Mind if I-" Robin starts but I hold up a hand to stop him.
"Just do it," I mutter and move aside so he can verify. I can't hold it against him. He's being rather polite about my unskillfulness.
He takes the fabric and moves it under another, more technical microscope, and I watch, mesmerised as a laser beams down onto it. Almost immediately the computer registers the substance and can identify all the individual elements in the stain. Then he does the same with the blood sample he took from the second victim. After a brief moment, the computer registers this too and confirms their matching features though the balances are different. The toxin found in the blood is far more concentrated. But it's a match all the same.
"Why didn't we do that to begin with?" I cross my arms, exasperated.
Robin seems sheepish as he shrugs his shoulders. "Dick told me not to take lessons away when they presented themselves," he admits, "but he also told me not to tell you that. He knew you wouldn't appreciate being treated like an incompetent burden."
"He thinks I'm incompetent?"
"Thought," he corrects quickly, "now he seems rather fond of you. God knows why."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Robin," I remark sarcastically, shaking my head a little.
There's a long silence so I turn back to the computer to access employee records from Arkham. With a short phone call, Oracle had agreed to hack into their system for us as suddenly Commissioner Gordon was unwilling to share them with me. At least until his own team had opportunity to investigate them first. Which implies that he is trying to regain dominance in our working relationship. Unsurprisingly he and I aren't getting along so well.
"It's Damian."
"What was that?" I spin round in my chair, raising an eyebrow.
"My name is Damian," he repeats, his eyes cast to the ground and his lips becoming a tight, thin line as he tenses his jaw.
"What made you decide to tell me that now?" I smile coyly, undeniably touched by the gesture. I didn't believe he would ever find me trustworthy or deserving enough.
He shrugs, still glaring at the floor as if it had done something to personally offend him. I've been on the receiving end of that look before and know that it isn't a good place to be.
"Pennyworth keeps insisting I trust you," he mumbles, crossing his arms uncomfortably. "And, you know… you seem to trust me more than Bruce or Dick do."
"They aren't confident in your capabilities, huh?"
"They don't think I can handle the responsibility," he tells me, "and it makes teamwork into more of a 'follow the leader' type experience. But you don't try to hold me back or correct me like they do. Which isn't to say you don't piss me off at times. Because you do."
"Glad I could be of service," I grin, "if I've pissed you off it means I've done a good job."
He shakes his head, trying to fight off a smile and turns back to the work at hand. Right now he looks more like a kid than ever. Just like a regular teenager. I guess under that harsh exterior that is all he has ever truly been. Suddenly, I understand that's how Dick finds a way to love him. It's the same reason why he and Bruce keep him from the full extent of this job.
As I see through their eyes, I realise they consider him a child first and a warrior second.
"The two victims never worked alongside each other but they did guard the same ward. Scarecrow's cell was located there until he escaped two months ago under suspicious circumstances," Damian says.
"Suspicious circumstances?"
"No alarms sounded. No guards intercepted him and there was no sign of his cell door being tampered with," he explains, "he just simply walked out. His escape wasn't even reported until the next morning when they discovered his cell was empty. By that point he was long gone."
"Inside job," I guess, "and how much do you want to bet that our deceased gentlemen had a part to play?"
Damian frowns, searching the two men's records with an intense look of concentration, gnawing his bottom lip a little between his teeth. Then he sighs heavily, suggesting he didn't find the answers he was looking for. "If they did, then why kill them?"
"Ah, Damian. Asking all the right questions," I grin wickedly. I had found a new sense of intrigue over the crimes. An intense fascination with solving my first set of murders. "Why don't we ask the maniac Doctor himself?"
Over one long, dreary week, we became borderline obsessive over Scarecrow's case. It was our fruitless efforts that kept us driven day and night, unstuck from the parameters of time. Which meant that we rarely slept, the hours within each day seeming to fluctuate with our growing mania, warping and swelling to allow us more time. Or at least what felt like more time. The reality was that we were exhausted, withdrawn from life and all its little intricacies like eating and sleeping.
Alfred would bring us five meals in what seemed like a full day but was actually just twelve hours, watching disconcertedly as each dish was left untouched or barely picked at, like rats or roaches had slowly feasted on it before retreating to their dark hidey holes. But he never offered any commentary on the matter, eventually distancing himself from us altogether. Either he was trying not to interrupt our investigation, arguing that the more we worked the sooner it would be over, or he'd grown frustrated with our refusal to take care of ourselves. I assumed the latter to be true, as his expression grew darker and more aggrieved each time he entered the cave with our meals. The servings of which becoming smaller and smaller each and every time, like he knew it was to go to waste.
Then eventually, after the seventh day had passed, Damian finally threw in the towel, now leaning back in his seat with a tense groan and he stretches his arms high above his head. He cranes his neck and I hear muffled cracks as he works the stiffness from it and he lets out a gentle sigh.
"I'm calling it," he says, sounding discouraged as he keys something into the computer. "I'm contacting Grayson. See if he has any ideas."
"You do that," I yawn, finally allowing myself to sit back and I reach for the half of a sandwich that Alfred had brought me sometime before though I can't remember when. Most likely hours ago. The bread is soggy when I bite into it, and the crust is stale but it is still the most delicious thing I've eaten in a long time and I quickly finish it off.
Wordlessly, Damian pushes his own plate towards me and I practically inhale the other half of the sandwich and then use my pinkie finger to pick up the little leftover crumbs, licking them off until the plates are clean.
Damian's expression is of utter disgust, his nose wrinkled and lips puckered into a grimace. "That's just gross."
"What can I say? I was hungry," I shrug, smiling with immense satisfaction. The shake of his head is so miniscule that I can't be sure whether it was real or just a figment of my imagination.
"Heaven forbid I ever accidentally witness how you eat without an audience," he mutters, shuddering at the thought.
I laugh with just an exhale through my nose, like a soft hiss, only mildly amused by the banter.
"Sweetheart, if that day ever comes, I'll have to kill you," I warn innocently.
"That wouldn't be necessary. The sight alone would send me into cardiac arrest," he retorts smoothly with a slight upturn in his lips and a pale tint of red in his cheeks. The faintest hint of a smile.
Ever since he had opened up to me it's like I have been introduced to a whole new person. Someone equally cunning and skilful and brutal, but someone more akin to human kind. Though he still struggles to balance himself around me… or around anyone for that matter. His attempts at inoffensive teasing sometimes strikes too close to home, beating up old wounds and rehashing histories that ought to be forgotten.
But he's slowly learning. The way he applies himself to understanding acceptable social behaviour is commendable. Even if he never quite comprehends certain gestures like hugging. For him, a friendly embrace is so foreign and uncharacteristic that he simply cannot act upon them, whether giving or receiving. It's a habit he finds difficult to learn. More so than any physical combat or technical skill, as if violence is simply written in his DNA.
I can't begin to imagine what that must feel like for him. Being unskilled in the field of basic human decency and having to teach yourself how to love.
I like to think that I've helped him in this pursuit to learn.
Abruptly, Dick appears on the monitor, blinking tiredly at us with his hair in disarray as though he had only just gotten out of bed. I realise then that I actually don't know what time it is. He covers his mouth with his fist as he yawns and then tries to rub the sleep from his eyes but it doesn't seem to wake him up any.
"How is that I don't sleep for two days and then the second I finally doze off you two knuckleheads decide to give me a call?" his voice is filled with accusation and genuine annoyance but he doesn't hang up.
"We need your help with two recent murder cases concerning Scarecrow," Robin isn't sympathetic to Dick's exhaustion and doesn't appear at all sorry for waking him.
"What about them?" he groans, running his hands through his hair, making it messier still.
"I'll send through our reports," I say, "but what we really need is to track Scarecrow down. The bastard has hidden himself well."
"So you've exhausted all of Scarecrow's usual locations?" Dick asks through the computer screen, his eyes now fixed upon a computer to his left.
"No. I searched for him at the coffee shop and the supermarket," I remark sarcastically, "should I be looking in strip clubs instead?"
"No need to be so pissy," Dick shakes his head but his attention remains focused on whatever it is he is reading.
"Robin and I have looked high and low for the guy. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack."
"Well he is one of the smarter ones," he says, "albeit one of the crazier ones."
"Doesn't make for a good mix, does it." It isn't a question.
Over the years we had both witnessed what unruly amounts of intelligence and insanity could create. What kinds of destruction it could leave in its wake. It made for fearsome opponents because not only were they cunning, but they were unpredictable too. Which only made them all the more difficult to overcome.
But the real worrisome part was that, to me at least, their actions sometimes made an unsettling amount of sense. Say if the Joker was to release his toxic gas in a comedy show, making the audience die laughing. There's something poetic in that. Utterly crazy and unwarranted, sure. But it makes sense. It's this understanding that has often left me questioning my own sanity.
And I wonder if people like the Joker and Scarecrow look at the rest of the world and think 'they're the crazy ones'.
"There's a building along the outskirts of the city that's getting some unusual attention," Dick says finally, sending me some coordinates.
"But it isn't abandoned," Robin points out.
"You're right, it's not. But the owners haven't been seen for over a week. Ever since their disappearance there have been reports of strange occurrences in the vicinity of that building."
"Strange how?"
"People believe it to be haunted." he explains, "But their reports all differ from one another. They've all seen something that one could consider terrifying, like swarms of insects or snakes… or bats. But nobody has ever claimed to have seen the exact same thing."
"That is strange," I agree, "Do you think Scarecrow's been dishing out some of his delicious toxin?"
"Quite possibly. Either way it's worth checking out."