Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock
Jason's POV
Turns out, Eddie Van Coon is dead.
Sherlock found out by climbing from one balcony to another. Of course, he didn't let me in the room, and if I grappled up, he would have asked where I got the grappling hook. Next time, though, I am breaking the door down if I have to.
"Do you think he'd lost a lot of money? I mean; suicide is pretty common among City boys," I point out. Some of the gunshots I used to hear at night weren't murders, though quite a few of them were, they were suicides.
"We don't know that it was suicide." Sherlock insists, squatting down by a suitcase by the bed and beginning to rummage through its contents.
"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony," I say. The only way this was murder is if someone did what I usually do when I want to off them: sneak in through the window, using my grappling hook.
"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," Sherlock says. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."
I looks, and sure enough, he is right, as usual. It reminds me of how B always got everything right by thinking outside the box. He didn't go for the obvious, he went for whatever seemed the most impossible, because that's what the bad guys always did.
Sherlock walks towards the foot of the bed. "Those symbols at the bank. The graffiti. Why were they put there?"
"What, some sort of code?" I ask, wondering if it is anything like Morse code, something Batman taught me a long time ago.
"Obviously," Sherlock says, looking at Van Coon legs, and then opening his jacket to look inside the pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"
"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," I say sarcastically.
"Oh good. You follow," Sherlock says. "What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?"
Maybe one saying: I am going to kill you? That usually sends people running.
"What about this morning?" Sherlock continues. "Those letters you were looking at?"
"Bills," I mutter.
Sherlock opens Van Coons mouth and pulls a black origami flower from inside it. "Yes. He was being threatened."
Another police officer walks into the room. I immediately glare at him, a bad habit of mine; glaring at figures of authority. Possibly because I did most of my growing up without one.
"Ah, Sergeant," Sherlock says. "We haven't met."
"Yeah, I know who you are," the Sergeant says. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."
Sherlock hands him the bag of evidence. I feel like handing the guy my fist, but I remember that I can't get arrested right now.
"I've phoned Lestrade," Sherlock says casually. "Is he on his way?"
"He's busy. I'm in charge," the Sergeant says arrogantly. "And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."
And we have to listen to you why, Sergeant Dim-muck? Jeez, how many rude idiots can I meet?
"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock continues in a know-it-all voice. I absent-mindedly begin to crack my knuckles.
"John please restrain yourself from hitting him," Sherlock says to me, as Dimmock looks at me warily, "As for you attempted deduction," he says to Dimmock, "Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts. You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."
"Like?" Dimmock asks, still eyeing me cagily.
"The wound was on the right side of his head," Sherlock says, as if it is obvious, which to him, probably everything is.
"And?" Dimmock asks, annoyed.
"Van Coon was left-handed," Sherlock says, pretending to try and put a gun to his right temple with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."
"Left-handed?"
"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice," Sherlock says sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around this flat." He points to the coffee table. "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left… Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"
"No, I think you've covered it," I say, happy that Sherlock is taking this moron down a few notches, at least in healthier way than I would. I take people down a few notches by cutting off their legs at their kneecaps.
"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list," Sherlock continues, pointing towards the kitchen while looking at Dimmock impatiently. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts."
"But the gun," Dimmock says. "Why…"
"He was waiting for the killer," Sherlock interrupts. "He'd been threatened." He walks away and picks up his gloves and scarf.
"What?" Dimmock asks, confused. He really is dim.
"Today at the bank," I explain to him. "Sort of a warning."
"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock insists.
"And the bullet?" Dimmock asks.
"Went through the open window," Sherlock claims.
"Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?!" Dimmock complains, not believing it.
"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it," Sherlock says.
"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock looks confused.
"Good! You're finally asking the right questions," Sherlock says dramatically with a condescending tone.
I give Dimmock the Bat-glare as I walk out after him. The man cowers away from me. I hear him mutter to himself as I leave, "When did the freak get himself a guard dog?"
After that, Sherlock drags me to some restaurant where that Sebastian guy is having lunch with some of his colleagues. We walk up to the table.
"It was a threat," Sherlock says. "That's what the graffiti meant."
"I'm kind of in a meeting," Sebastian says, sounding annoyed. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"
"I don't think this can wait," Sherlock says. "Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed."
"What?" Sebastian looks up, startled.
"Van Coon," I say, stoically. "The police are at his flat."
"Killed?" he asks, shocked.
"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock says, sarcastic and annoyed as usual. "Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, 9:00 in Scotland Yard suit you?
Later, we head into the public restroom to talk privately. Kind of an odd place to do that if you ask me, but hey; I usually do my meetings in warehouses and alleyways, so I can't really talk.
"Harrow, Oxford. He was a very bright guy," Sebastian says. "Worked in Asia for a while, so…"
"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," I say, catching on.
Sebastian dries his hands on a towel. "Lost five mill in a single morning. It made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."
"Who would want to kill him?" I ask.
"We all make enemies," Sebastian says.
I know that, but sometimes, it helps to know who they are, you have a better chance of not dying then, though sometimes even knowing who they can't help you, like in my case.
Sebastian's phone receives a text. "Excuse me." He looks at his phone. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."
"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian," Sherlock says. "He was murdered."
"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that," Sebastian says. "And neither does my boss. I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked." He walks away, leaving the room.
"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," I mutter as we exit too.
After that, I go out for a while as Red Hood. It's been too long since I have been in costume. I don't feel comfortable going that long without a domino mask and a helmet on.
I prowl over the rooftops, not actually finding anything to stop, but getting a nice patrol in.
When I get back, I remove my costume in secret and then sneak back out so I can make it look like I didn't go through the window to get back to the flat.
When I get in, Sherlock is sitting on the couch, looking at the photographs he took. "I said, could you pass me a pen?"
"When?" I ask.
"About an hour ago," he replies.
I sigh, handing him a pen. "Didn't notice I'd gone out then."
"No, what were you doing?" he asks.
"Going for a walk," I lie. Technically it was a walk on the rooftops, or maybe more of a run, but that's all I did.
Sherlock looks at me suspiciously. "Here, have a look."
I walk over to see what he is talking about.
I walk over and look at the news article on the computer: "Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police".
There is also a picture of a bald man, and an article that says:An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in…
"An intruder who can walk through walls," I say. What is he? A Martian? A ghost? Some kind of Meta with a phasing ability?
"It happened last night," Sherlock says. " The journalist was shot dead in his flat. The doors were locked, the windows bolted from the inside– exactly the same as Van Coon."
I stand up straighter, gazing at Sherlock intently. "You think…"
"He's killed another one," Sherlock finishes for me.
We talk to Dimmock later.
"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat…" Sherlock shows him the article. "Doors locked from the inside."
"Even someone as dim as you has to admit it's similar," I say.
Dimmock scowls at me, but looks away when he sees my glare, and then turns to scowl at the computer instead.
"Both men killed by someone who can apparently walk through solid walls," I say. Or break in through the window.
"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" Sherlock accuses. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"
Dimmock nods.
"And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?"
"No," Dimmock says grudgingly.
"No," Sherlock says. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel. I've just handed you a murder enquiry. Five minutes in his flat."
When we get to Lukis's flat, Sherlock immediately begins investigating. "Four floors up. That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable. He walks into the middle of the room. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."
He turns back and looks at the skylight.
"I don't understand," Dimmock says.
I do. I know exactly what Sherlock is thinking right now, because this is the way we Bats get into buildings.
Sherlock goes out onto the landing. "You're dealing with a killer who can climb." He hops up on a box to get a closer look at the skylight.
I can't help but remember the dozens of times I broke in through the skylights with B to fight the bad guys… back before I became what I am now: the Red Hood, and enraged, resurrected anti-hero. I honestly don't know how I feel about that right now.
"What are you doing?" Dimmock asks.
"He clings to the walls like an insect," Sherlock says, pushing the window up. "That's how he got in."
"What?!" Dimmock exclaims.
I don't get what his problem is. Hasn't he heard of Metas and grappling hooks and other things like that? It's not too improbable.
"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight," Sherlock says.
Yep, just like what B, Dick, Babs, and I do, only we sometimes use our grappling hooks to help.
"You're not serious! Like Spiderman?" Dimmock exclaims.
Hey, there could be a Meta with spider-like abilities.
"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon," Sherlock says.
"Oh, hold on!" Dimmock laughs in disbelief.
"And of course that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," Sherlock says, getting down onto the landing again. "We have to find out what connects these two men."
We go to the library later, and go to the shelves to find the place the books Lukis checked out came from. Sherlock picks up a library book. "Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died."
I pull some books off the shelf, wondering if there might be a connection, and then I see it. "Sherlock."
Sherlock turns around and looks at me, coming forward a moment later and reaches into the shelf and begins to pull out a ton of books until he reveal the spray painted on the back of the shelf. The same two symbols that were at the bank. One and fifteen.
"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. A few hours later, he dies," Sherlock says.
"The killer finds Lukis at the library," I say, "he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home."
"Late that night, he dies too," Sherlock finishes the sentence.
"But why did they die, Sherlock?" I ask. Could whoever is doing this be doing it for the same reason the Joker does? For the sheer entertainment of it?
"Only the cipher can tell us."
After that, we leave. As we walk through the square, Sherlock continues to talk to me. "The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment, but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."
"Where are we headed?" I ask, a question I used to ask B whenever we got in the Batmobile. He would always explain things on the way, figuring it would save time, though sometimes he would explain at the Cave too.
"I need to ask some advice," he says.
"What?!" I say. He has to be joking. After all, he is so much like B when it comes to fighting crime, though there's no costume. No, I mean he's like B in the way that he never asks for help, even when he may need it.
Sherlock glares at me. "You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."
"You need advice?"
"On painting, yes," Sherlock says. "I need to talk to an expert."
He begins to lead me into an alleyway, where a man who looks a little older than me is spray-painting the al. he sprays his tag: Raz below the image and then continues the "art".
As we approach him, I wonder if I should be ready to draw my gun or not.
"Part of a new exhibition," he says.
"Interesting," Sherlock says, not sounding interested at all.
"I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," he says with a chuckle.
"Catchy," I mutter. This guy doesn't know the meaning of bloodlust.
He continues to spray. "I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"
Sherlock shows him the images on his phone. "Know the author?"
"I recognize the paint," he says. "It is like Michigan. Hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."
"What about the symbols?" Sherlock asks. "Do you recognize them?"
"Not even sure it's a proper language," he says, staring at the images. Yes it is! It's mandarin!
"Two men have been murdered, Raz," Sherlock says. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."
"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz asks. "It's hardly much, now, is it?" his name reminds me a little too much of 'Ra's'
"Are you gonna help us or not?" Sherlock asks impatiently.
"I'll ask around," Raz says casually."
"Somebody must know something about it," Sherlock says.
"Oi!" a voice calls.
We spin around and see two Community Support Officers running towards us. Sherlock grabs his phone from and Raz and runs off, while Raz drops his spray can and kicks his bag towards me before running off too.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the officers accuses. "This gallery is a listed public building."
Growling, I attack.
By the end of it, they wished they never met me. Now, I'd better get out of here before I go to jail. Like I said earlier, my prints still come up as Jason Todd, a dead fourteen-year-old from Gotham.
When I get back to the flat, Sherlock is standing by the fireplace. "You've been a while."
"Yeah, well, you left me to beat up a couple of Security guards," I growl.
"You beat up Security guards?" Sherlock stares at me.
"Yeah, the ones you left me with," I snap. That's one thing B never would have done. Maybe I was just an expendable soldier to him, considering he never avenged my death, but I know one thing: he never left me alone in battle.
Sherlock slams his book shut, dismissing what I just said as if it's casual news. "This symbol. I still can't place it. I need you to go to the police station."
"What? Why?" I ask. Police stations and me don't exactly mix.
"Ask about the journalist," Sherlock says.
"For the love of Batman," I mutter to myself, too quietly for Sherlock to hear.
Sherlock grabs his coat. "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements."
We head downstairs and out onto the street.
"I'm going to go and see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide," Sherlock says, walking away.
I sigh, and get on my motorcycle. This isn't going to be fun.
AN: Well, what do you guys think? Was it good? Bad? I'd love to get more feedback. I would like to thank Tales from within, and my two anonymous reviewers, Guest and Sakura, for being my first three reviewers! Thanks so much, guys; you made my day! :)
Well, thanks again for reading, please review!
-DragonsintheMoonlight