Case File 0041:

February 2nd, 2007

NOTE: FOR PERSONAL USE ONLY

I needed to know the truth. I deserved to know the truth. I thought I was ready. I thought I was prepared for anything. I'm not. I wasn't.

"In today's headlines, the Sharp Commission has officially convened to examine the parole practices of Arkham Asylum. The commission, headed up by senior members of Mayor Sharp's administration, will be determining just what role the parole system in Gotham City played in Victor Goodman's rampage back in late December of last year. The commission is expected to call as its first witness…"

Edward idly listened to the news broadcast as he stood in front of his closet, deciding on the final touches for his wardrobe that day. Sharp Commission on Parole Practices indeed. Goodman's parole officer had been fired back in January for his lax supervision of Goodman. Well, he supposed Sharp had to do something to remind Gotham just how anti-crime he was and the elite of Gotham remembered that they should be embarrassed by how reliant they were on Batman and needed to actually do something. And here they were. Edward finally made up his mind and pulled out his purple silk waistcoat. It was no longer snowing, but it was still expected to be cold out, so extra layers would be appreciated. Once he pulled on his matching purple tie, Edward looked down at his watch. 8:15. He grinned. He'd have time to grab coffee before he went to Penelope's office, as per their Friday routine. No doubt she'd want his opinion on the Sharp Commission. It was certain to be an interesting conversation.

Last but not least, Edward pulled out his regular cane and put on a green bowler hat. He walked down the hall and to his coffee table to pick up the TV remote when Summer Gleeson's tone shifted. "This is a breaking news alert! Waylon Jones, also known as Killer Croc, is reported to have escaped custody of Arkham Asylum!"

Edward didn't hear his cane land on the floor. His attention was fixed on the television screen as Gleeson continued, "Jones is believed to have escaped through the sewer system of Arkham, still damaged by the effects of the Joker's takeover nearly two years ago. Jones is violent and should be considered extremely dangerous. If spotted, alert GCPD immediately…."

Waylon Jones…Edward remembered him. It was admittingly hard to forget a man who was almost completely reptilian at this point, but it wasn't memories of Croc himself that were running through Edward's head at the moment. There was one memory he had that was still clear as day to him, that had been almost from the moment he'd woken up from his coma…

"Keep moving Nigma!"

Edward tries not to flinch as the burly man behind him pushes him forward. His hands are shackled in front of him and he can't quite see out of his left eye, swollen shut by his encounter with Batman almost two hours ago. He's just gotten though processing in Arkham and is now being led to his cell, courtesy of Lyle Bolton. Edward scoffs a bit. He'll be out of here by morning light. Finally, Bolton stops him just before his cell door and types a few buttons on the control panel. Edward's memorized it already. Today though, Edward catches a glimpse of a human shape in the cell.

He turns sharply at Bolton. "I think you've made a mistake," he says. "Someone's already in this cell!"

Bolton smirks and Edward feels his stomach drop. "Budget cuts Eddie," Bolton says smugly. "You've got a roommate." The cell door unlocks and Bolton quickly unlocks Edward's shackles before pushing him in, shutting the cell door as soon as Edward hits the floor. "Have fun with him Spooky!" Edward hears Bolton's loud, braying laughter as the guard walks away from the cell.

Edward pushes himself up from the floor when Bolton's last words suddenly hit him. Spooky? Oh no…Edward slowly looks up at the cot where the figure he saw through the door was lying. It's a tall man, almost impossibly tall, his long spindly legs hanging awkwardly over the cheap cot bolted down to the floor. He sits up, slowly, his ice blue eyes looking at his new cellmate with a look that was both calculating and disinterested. "Edward Nigma?" the man says at last, his voice a low Georgian drawl.

Edward pulls himself up and, mustering up as much bravado as he can, extends his hand out to him. "Jonathan Crane, I presume?"

An obnoxious commercial for a car dealership blared on the television, bringing Edward back to the present. He took a deep breath. It had been ten years since that evening he'd been assigned a cell with Jonathan. He'd tried with all of his power not to think about that evening, or what had followed, or about anything even remotely connected to Jonathan, preoccupying himself with his case work so he wouldn't have time to think about it. Hugo Strange and Quincy Sharp had been a Godsend in that regard. It had worked for awhile, but that was before Waylon Jones had emerged and thoughts of Jonathan, always there just below the surface, came to the front once again. Edward felt his breath coming in gasps, his heart clench, his hands slowly creep up to his hair as if they wanted to pull it out, he wanted to curl into a ball and never leave his apartment again-

"Pull it together Edward," he said sharply. He took a deep breath, then another. Slowly, he felt his heart rate return to normal. Once he was certain he was no longer about to breakdown, he checked his watch again. 8:45. So much for coffee. He sighed, turned off his television, picked up his cane where he had dropped it and set out for the day. These feelings would pass once he became focused on the case. They always did.

Penelope thankfully didn't comment on it when Edward arrived fifteen minutes late. She'd begun talking about the commission almost as soon as he'd stepped into her office. She was going on about it now, as Edward sat in her office chair and said nothing. "…Goodman's parole officer was already fired, so I think they're going to be taking a look a t the parole system in Arkham in broader terms. Joan said that she'll be called as a witness. She and I both think that Jeremiah Arkham's going to be criticized for being lax, it's an easy criticism to make since the man's been dead for almost five years. Jones' escape though doesn't exactly make a compelling case that Sharp's practices have been anymore successful than Arkham's were…"

Edward's nails dug into the armrests of the office chair at the mention of Croc. Penelope's voice gradually began to fade, as he felt himself drifting off into the past again….

….He's been awake for about a week now. He thinks. It's hard to mark the passage of time in this place. The doctors say he's recovering well. He takes their word for that. They call him Edward, and it feels right, but his mind still can't quite make the connection between the name and himself. The dreams are becoming a problem. There's one person in particular who keeps showing up. He's a tall man, almost skeletal, with a mop of mousy brown hair and ice blue eyes that penetrate him to the core. He's woken up in the middle of the night every night reaching out for this person, only to find himself alone. He can't quite place his name. He's not sure that he's even real.

Today, he feels strong enough to sit himself up. His head still hurts, despite all of the medication they have him on. He reaches to the nightstand where a vase of flowers is set up for the television remote and he spots a drawer. Curious, he opens it up. There's nothing in it but a scrap of pale brown cloth. He picks it up and feels the coarse material, his eyebrows knitting as he rubs it with his fingers. He knows this from somewhere. Then a flash comes to him of a tall man in a mask that looked and felt like this. He takes it off and he sees the same ice blue eyes that have haunted him in his dreams. Edward feels a smile come to his face. He knows who this man is. "Jonathan."

The man's facial expression doesn't change, but Edward thinks his eyes soften just a bit. "Edward," the man says. "Edward…."

…"Edward?

Edward straightened in his chair as he came back to himself. He wasn't in the hospital hallucinating. He was in Penelope's office, working a case. Penelope stood in front of him, a confused expression on her face. "Edward," she said again. "Did you hear anything I said?" She sounded curious, not angry. Edward thought he'd prefer anger.

"I did," he said a bit testily. "You mentioned that…Croc's escape would undermine Sharp's security claims. Which I agree with, but I doubt anyone at that so-called commission would bring it up."

Penelope's face became even more confused and Edward knew he'd screwed up. "Edward," she said carefully. "I said that over five minutes ago. Where were you?"

Edward sighed and tilted his head back. He trusted Penelope, but this was not a road he was prepared to go down with her. "You've been quiet all morning," he heard her continue. "What's wrong?"

Edward snorted a bit. "This is a change. I've never had anyone complain that I'm not talking enough before. Usually it's been the opposite." He looked at Penelope again and flinched when he saw how stern she looked.

"Deflecting with humor is not going to get you out of this Edward Nigma," she scolded. Then her face became soft again. As soft as she ever got at least. "You're clearly preoccupied about something. Is it about Strange or Sharp?"

"No," Edward answered honestly.

"Another case then?"

"It's nothing," Edward said, a little more harshly than he intended. "It's fine Penelope. I'm fine."

"Then why won't you talk about it?"

God, this woman never quit, did she? "I wasn't aware that this was going to become a session, Dr. Young. "

Penelope's face darkened a bit, then she sighed. "I don't want to fight with you Edward," she said. "But if something's wrong, even if it's personal, you can talk to me about it."

Her blue eyes looked right into his own then and Edward had to look down. Why did she have to have blue eyes, why did she have to have his eyes?

Jonathan Crane's not much to look at, but he does have the most remarkable shade of blue eyes he's ever seen. They're beautiful, in a cold way. And they're intelligent, which Edward appreciates even more. Crane he notices doesn't speak much in the asylum, but he watches everything that happens with a laser sharp focus. And perhaps it's vanity talking, but Edward's been noticing that gaze on him more and more as time goes by. In the back of his mind, Edward knows that Crane's probably just studying him for a chance to discover what his greatest fear is, but attention is attention. Today at lunch, Edward feels Crane' stare, so this time, he stares right back and winks. Crane's expression doesn't change, but Edward thinks he can detect a flush. He smirks. Interesting….

"…Edward? Are you alright?"

Edward looked up to see a different pair of blue eyes staring at him. He can't deal with this. Not today. "I have to go," he said, getting out of the chair. He was out the door in moments, ignoring Penelope's protests.

Edward didn't go to his office after he left, as he usually did each Friday. Instead, he went straight back to his apartment. His cell phone rang twice on his trip back, Penelope no doubt. Edward ignored it. Once he was back inside his apartment, he tossed his cane to the floor and headed straight for his hallway closet. He shoved his hanged jackets and shirt to one side as he reached down to pick up a cardboard moving box. Once he had it in his grasp, he walked back to his living room and sat on his couch, placing the box on his coffee table. He opened the lid and began to pull out the contents. Inside were old newspaper clippings of Jonathan, cataloging all of his crimes as the Scarecrow. Nina and Deirdre had compiled it for him when he was still in recovery, after Selina had told him about Jonathan's-Edward quickly shook his head. Don't think about it. Edward had only looked at the contents once or twice before putting it away in his closet. He'd thought with the passage of time, this might have been easier. It wasn't. Edward forced himself to look at the photographs. They were all of Jonathan as Scarecrow, or occasional mugshots from the GCPD. Edward had no personal pictures of Jonathan. This box, a few scattered memories, and the scrap of burlap from Jonathan's mask that had somehow been placed in his hospital bedside drawer, were all that Edward had left of Jonathan. Edward felt his eyes begin to grow misty and shut them tight. How was that possible? They'd been together for six years, until Edward's coma. Until…until…

"It's been almost two years Edward!" he scolded himself, getting up from the couch to pace around his living room. "Why are you focusing on this now?" He walked back to his couch and sank down into the cushions. He reached for the remote and turned on the TV. Perhaps a new headline would distract him.

"As of right now, Waylon Jones' whereabouts remain unknown. Commissioner Gordon has urged that citizens exercise caution-"

Edward let out a frustrated cry. It was the news story about Croc that had started all of this to begin with. Edward buried his face in his hands. He couldn't think about Croc without thinking about when Selina had told him….

…When he's not in physical therapy, or suffering through an equally tedious psychiatric examination, there's precious little for Edward to do. He's already read through every book and trashy magazine the rehabilitation center staff or Dina-Nina, her name is Nina- have left for him. The television posted in his room only has five channels and he's never liked television much anyway, he thinks. He's resorted to leaning back and counting the tiles he sees on the ceiling above him and waiting for him. It's been two months now, where is he?

"You look like you're having fun."

Edward looks up at his visitor and is, once again, slightly disappointed. It's not him. It's a beautiful woman leaning against the doorway. She has short black hair and green eyes. Selina, her name is Selina, she is-was?-his friend. He thinks. "Hardly," he says. "I'm bored."

"Poor baby," she coos at him and he thinks they've had this conversation before. She reaches into her large black purse and pulls out a brightly colored cube. "I got you a present." She hands it over to him, frowning when he doesn't take it at first. "It's a Rubix Cube. You love these."

Did he? That sounds right, but…he takes it and places it on the night stand next to his bed. Selina moves to pull a chair up and sit next to him when he asks her the question he's been asking himself since the first week after he woke up. "Where's Jonathan?"

Selina freezes. She looks up at him, her green eyes wide. "You-you remember Jonathan?"

"Not very well," Edward admits. "But I remember that we were together. I remember that I-" he stops. "Where is he? Why hasn't he come to see me? Doesn't he care?" Selina looks down at her lap and a thought occurs to Edward. "We-did we break up before I went into my coma?"

Selina shakes her head. She looks up and it's the most serious look he ever remembers seeing from her. "Eddie," she says, "Jonathan's gone."

Gone? "He left Gotham?" He left him here in a coma? No, that's not right, he wouldn't.

Selina seems to be at war with herself before she clutches Edward's hand in hers. "Edward," she says. "Jonathan's dead."

Edward barely hears the rest. "Riot at Arkham Asylum…Killer Croc…I'm so sorry Eddie…" He sees flashes in his mind of a tall man, impossibly thin, with cold blue eyes that betrayed the slightest bit of warmth when they were directed at him, he remembers falling asleep against him on a cramped bed in Arkham Asylum, or in an apartment, he remembers quarreling with him, he remembers he loved him. He doesn't remember his own name some days, but he remembers that he loves him and now he's-

She barely finishes before he hears the sound of someone screaming. "No! You're lying! He's not-he wouldn't leave me, he wouldn't.." He realizes that it's him when Selina's arms wrap tight around him and he buries himself against her, tears streaming down both their faces.

"I'm so sorry Eddie."

By the time Edward finally looked up, the sun was beginning to set. He blinked. Had he fallen asleep? How much time was he loosing because of these episodes? Edward leaned back against his couch. What Selina told him hadn't made sense to him. It still didn't. Jonathan could be reckless, yes, but tangling with Killer Croc? He typically, from what Edward remembered and from what looking over Jonathan's criminal files had told him, didn't interact much with the other Rogues. He certainly didn't antagonize them. And while Croc certainly had a vicious temper, he usually only used it in defensive situations. If you left him alone, he'd leave you alone. What motivation could he possibly have had for attacking Jonathan?

He recalled asking Selina once after he'd been released from the hospital. She'd shrugged, simply saying that since she hadn't been there, she didn't know the exact details. She'd given him a serious look then. "Eddie," she'd said. "There are some things you really don't want to know." Edward frowned. He'd been the man's lover. If anyone was entitled to know what exactly had happened, it was him. Another thought occurred to Edward. The burlap scrap. How had it gotten to his bedside? Who had left it there? It certainly wasn't Croc. Something about this wasn't adding up.

Edward leaned forward and took another look through the articles he had about Jonathan, paying special attention to the last articles before…the incident at Arkham. It was just as he thought. They hadn't collaborated on any kind of scheme, or were linked in any way in the articles he had. That ruled out a double cross…Edward shook his head. He was spending too much time on this. He needed to pack these up and move on. The only two people who could give him the answers he needed were out of his reach. He had a case he needed to get back to-

Edward was caught off guard by the sound of a phone ringing. Edward reached into his pocket for his cell phone, only to realize that it had died at some point during the day. He realized that the ringing was coming from a burner cell phone he kept in his jacket pocket. The only people who had this number were his informants. He couldn't afford to miss a call from them. He pulled out the phone and answered. "Yes?"

"Hey boss. We've got a problem on the Lower West Side."

Edward groaned. This day just kept getting better. "Define problem. Did someone get made? Are you in jail?"

"Nah. One of the guys said that he spotted Croc down in the old subway tunnels down there. They're gettin' spooked."

Edward sat up with a start. "Croc?" he repeated. "Are you sure?"

"Kinda hard to miss him boss. What do you want us to do? No offense, but we're not gettin' paid enough to fight with Croc."

Edward grit his teeth at the flippant tone in the informant's voice. "Just because I'm not leaving riddles for Batman anymore doesn't mean you can take that tone with me," he said. A thought occurred to Edward. It was crazy. It was stupid. It was the only way he'd know for sure what exactly had happened to his lover. "Tell the others to pull back. I'm heading down there myself."

"Whoa. Boss, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"You're not paid to second guess me!" Edward snarled. "I'll be there in an hour and you'd better not be!" He hung up the phone and got to his feet. He walked over to his hall closet and pulled out his sword cane. Cane in hand, he walked out of the apartment without locking the door behind him.

As he walked down the streets of Gotham in the darkness and cold of a February night, his mind was swirling with all of the reasons why what he was doing was a Very Bad Idea. Each reason his mind came up with for why he should turn around was countered by one simple desire: to know the truth. He'd spent six years with Jonathan Crane. He needed to know what had happened beneath Arkham Asylum that night. He deserved to know what happened. Something wasn't right, Jonathan couldn't have died like that. He couldn't have. And one way or another, he'd get the answers he needed from Waylon Jones.

Finally, Edward came upon the entrance to a subway tunnel just below the Bowery. After checking to make sure no one was following him, he descended down the steps into the dingy old terminal. There had been several subway car routes linking the different neighborhoods of Gotham once upon a time, but time, budget cuts and Rogue attacks had whittled the number down significantly. The old tunnels remained though, safe haven for the homeless population, as well as various gangs. Edward passed a few of the former, huddling around a small fire. One of them, an old man, looked up at Edward as he jumped down onto the track.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you," he said. "Someone said that Croc was down there."

"Your concern is touching," Edward drawled, "but misplaced. I have nothing to fear from the likes of Croc." If only Edward felt half as much bravado as he projected.

The homeless man shrugged and went back to warming himself by his fire. "Your funeral."

Edward scoffed then took a few steps forward. He followed the track into a tunnel and into darkness. No going back now. He needed to know the truth.

He owed Jonathan that much.