Harvey Bullock was not happy. If there was anything the burly detective disliked, it was costumed nuts running wild in Gotham City; and while the past few weeks had been relatively nut-free, the nutjob population of Gotham (and it was a sizeable one) was putting forth a tremendous effort to make up for it tonight. First there had been that small matter of the trivia show—Bullock gritted his teeth and moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth at the memory of his humiliation at Robin's hands. He'd already chewed out Robinson, Jones, and O'Sullivan for not finding that scrambler first, and would have started in on Montoya but for his strong sense of self-preservation. The old curmudgeon in charge of the studio had given Bullock an awful lot of guff, too, returning without his daughter about ten minutes after he left to sermonize Bullock about the corruption of the Gotham PD and the horrible effects of a high-calorie diet. Bullock had wanted nothing more than to tell the old man to stuff it, but some Ryder fellow had been standing mere feet away with a news camera, and Gordon had already had "a little talk" with Bullock about giving the media a negative image…
Then there had been the shark incident. Some looney tune in a shark costume (God only knew where these people got their clothing from) had attacked the Lee Ki Shipyards by the docks and left… Bullock groaned and rubbed his throbbing temple… a riddle behind, prompting Bullock to rush to the shipyards at double speed. Unfortunately, the "riddle" had turned out to be a vulgar two-line insult involving pigs, combat boots, and Commissioner Gordon's mother. The attack on the shipyards had been completely unconnected to the Riddler's invasion of "Guess Gotham and Go" (or whatever the show was called), and Bullock had wasted forty minutes of driving time.
Then there had been the newscast about the Gotham Square kidnappings. Ex-professor Jonathan Crane had showed up in the middle of the shopping district, right smack in the middle, and gassed several dozen people before anyone could do anything. Bullock champed down on the toothpick angrily. If the police department got wind of half the incidents before the press did, there'd be no crime in Gotham! "Scarecrow" had kidnapped Bruce Wayne—and while Bullock publicly scoffed at the millionaire's playboy reputation, he privately recognized Wayne as one of the city's few unfallen heroes, a bright spot against darkness that seemed to pervade Gotham City. Not to mention he was the number-one most well known Gothamite… well, make that most well known uncostumed Gothamite. Between the Rogues and that lunatic Batman… Bullock shook his head. Seriously, what kind of man went around dressed like a giant bat? It couldn't be healthy.
"Sir?"
Bullock half-turned, toothpick clamped firmly between his teeth. It was Robinson, one of the younger officers. He looked nervous, rumpled, and sleep-deprived, three hallmarks of a Gotham policeman.
"What?" Bullock snapped irritably.
"The perimeter's set up… O'Sullivan, um, wants to see you."
Bullock sighed, removed the toothpick, and nodded.
"Send him here."
Robinson immediately retreated, returning seconds later with a tall, sallow-faced officer in tow. Bullock had never liked O'Sullivan; he was like a mechanic's kitchen floor—slick, oily, and squeaky clean. There were rumors he was on the take, just as there were rumors about nearly every Gotham police officer, but never anything enough to prove. Harvey Bullock scowled as the dark-haired officer flashed him a too-wide grin.
"Hey, Harvey," he said smoothly.
Bullock's scowl deepened.
"Whaddya want?" he demanded.
O'Sullivan's grin dropped, and he took a deep, thoughtful breath.
"Okay," he said finally. "Okay. I want to know what the heck we're doing out here, freezing our bums off outside a warehouse that hasn't been used in years. You should know where we are—this is the right on the edge of Thorne's turf and the Falcones' operation! This is not a safe place to be!"
Bullock snorted. So that's what was bothering O'Sullivan. Probably, some of his less-than-upstanding "friends" had noticed the police cordon and were getting uneasy.
"Cool yer jets," Bullock grunted. "The Commish got an 'anonymous police tip' that Riddler, Scarecrow, and maybe that Tetch dirtbag are hidin' out in there."
"An anonymous police tip! You know how reliable those are!" objected O'Sullivan.
"Naw, you weren't listening. Try again. The Commish got an 'anonymous police tip,'" Bullock scoffed. O'Sullivan still looked confused and unhappy. "Batman, you nitwit."
"Sir! Sir!"
Bullock groaned. It was Robinson. Again.
"What now?"
Robinson came rushing up, wide-eyed and sweating. He shot a nervous glance at O'Sullivan before confiding.
"There's a door. In the alley back there. Um, I think someone's coming out!"
Bullock dropped his toothpick and nodded, his heart starting to pick up.
"Good work, Robinson. I want O'Sullivan—" he stopped, eyeing the dark-haired man warily. "I want you and O'Sullivan to get me a SWAT team, fast as possible. We're going to grab whoever it is back there and make an official arrest without any help from the Commissioner's pet Bat. Got it?"
"Yes sir!" Robinson practically shouted.
O'Sullivan looked less than thrilled, but skulked along behind Robinson as the young detective rushed back to the squad car radio. Bullock took a deep breath and strode down the narrow alley, planting himself about halfway in against the decaying brick and quietly unholstering his gun. The door was already open, and a dim figure was standing outside the door… pulling on a string? After thirty seconds of consistent string-pulling, the figure took out a key and began clicking a series of locks into place. Bullock breathed softly, and waited.
"And that finishes that," the dark silhouette remarked to himself, sounding remarkably smug. "Eddie my boy, you're a genius. By the time Robin figures out that little bluff, I'll be—"
Harvey Bullock stepped out of the shadows, gun in hand.
"You're under arrest!" he barked.
"Dear me," the Riddler mused, his face hidden by deep shadow. "So you think you can—"
"I ain't the Bat," Bullock interrupted, as Riddler's hand crept towards his lapel. "Put 'em up and keep 'em up, or I will shoot."
"Shoot? My dear sir, think of the publicity! Killing an—er—suspect in cold blood!" the Riddler scoffed.
"I said shoot, not kill," Bullock snapped. A light, eager footstep behind him told him that Robinson had returned. "Now lay down on yer face and put yer arms behind you."
The Riddler complied, albeit sulkily.
"It's 'lie down on your face and put your arms behind you,'" he complained, as Robinson clicked the cuffs around his wrist. "Really, if you must take me in, you might use proper grammar and sentence structure! Wait, no, that's mine. That's my cane!"
Robinson gingerly rolled the cane out of reach and started helping the Riddler to his feet. With a snort of disgust, Harvey Bullock lowered his gun, reached forward, and pulled off the green bowler and purple domino mask. The mysterious Riddler faded into the pale, unattractive face of Edward Nygma.
"Who told you I was here? No one was supposed to know! It was Scarface, wasn't it? Or Batman… he must have known, somehow. Who was it?" Nygma demanded.
"Put him in the car and haul him to Blackgate," Bullock ordered.
"Shouldn't we call Arkham?" Robinson asked.
"Why aren't you listening to me?" howled Nygma. "Look—I'll bargain with you. I know where Scarecrow is! Tell me how you found me, and I'll tell you where to find him!"
Bullock's eyes lit up. Capturing both Riddler and Scarecrow single-handedly… it could mean good publicity, more weight in the department meetings, maybe even a promotion! And it would prove once and for all that Harvey Bullock was perfectly capable of working alone, without a dark-caped lunatic watching over his every move.
"All right," Bullock said, rubbing his chin. "Talk."
"I saw Scarecrow on the monitor—right through there," Nygma said in a rush. "In a few moments, he'll be emerging from that door. It's the emergency exit. All you have to do is wait here. Now tell me."
"Batman called the Commissioner," Robinson said before Bullock could say anything. "He said we'd find you here."
Edward Nygma looked distinctly disappointed.
"Oh," he sighed. "So he really is out there."
Bullock gave the criminal mastermind a dubious look.
"You bet he's out there," he said. "But you won't be 'out there' for a good long time. O'Sullivan! Take this nutjob to the car."
"And straight to Blackgate," O'Sullivan added maliciously.
"Keep an eye on 'im, though," Bullock added, as O'Sullivan led the handcuffed Riddler away.
"Oh, you know me, Detective," O'Sullivan replied.
As soon as he was out of hearing range, he added, "Fathead." Then, in a loud, officious voice, he added, "All right, Mr. Nygma, let's get you to Blackgate."
