"Gordon!" Bullock's voice is loud and demanding, and the suddenness of it almost causes her to trip and send the stack of papers and files she's carrying to nearly scatter over all the stairs. "C'mere!"
"What?" Jamie snaps, crossly, at the other detective once she gets to her desk, setting the papers down securely in the tray.
His eyes narrow. "No need to be huffy," he says. "I'm trying to do you a good turn and further your career." He gestures to the man by his side. "This is Lieutenant Bill Cranston. He knows people . But, hey, don't thank me, or anything."
She bites back a scathing retort; instead trying to keep her expression neutral. She's met Cranston before, though she doubts the man remembers it—it had been at a bar, and he had been hitting on her, ignoring her firm replies that she wasn't interested, and to leave it. In the end, she had wound up having to take a swing at him to get him to leave her alone.
His smile is oily and his eyes, beady, dart across her form in a way that makes her uncomfortable. "Ah, Detective Gordon," he says. "I've heard about you. You worked the missing kids case a few weeks back, didn't you?"
"I did," she confirms; struggling to keep her voice neutral, but Cranston doesn't seem to notice; instead going on to ask how she interrogates her suspects, and regales her with graphic descriptions of how he once used his Chamber of Commerce award—gained for supposed honourable years of service to the people of Gotham —to convince a suspect to speak. The details of it make Jamie queasy, and she's read some gruesome case files.
Thankfully, he's called away soon after; leaving Bullock to sit down at his own desk and glare balefully at his own stack of paperwork. Jamie's already started hers, and he must notice, because a moment later, he turns to her, and says, "You're better at the whole legal bullshit than me—why don't you just do both our reports?"
"You're a goddamn adult, Bullock," she snaps, "do your own paperwork—I'm not your maid."
He huffs and shoves his pile to the side of his desk, pulling out a newspaper and eying the headline: PONZI POLITICIAN KILLED BY BALLOONMAN! There's a photo of the man in question laying on the ground, a giant, deflated balloon half-covering his corpse. The same picture is in the case file that they were given earlier in the morning. "Whoever killed Danzer did Gotham a favour," Bullock comments; lips curling in disdain. "I won't break a sweat catching him."
As if you're one to talk, Jamie bites back. Instead, she turns her attention back to the report she's filling out. She's about three quarters of the way through when there's a tap on her shoulder. "Gordon?" a fellow officer says. "There's someone here asking to see you—says he's from juvenile services."
She blinks. "Oh, I'd forgotten about that," she says. "Thanks. I'll go see him. Bullock—" she rises from her chair, "don't overheat your brain trying to understand the fine print on that paperwork."
He scowls at her; flipping the bird. Ignoring him, she makes her way down the stairs and to the lobby, where a short, balding man is waiting alone with the familiar face of the girl she now knows as Selina Kyle. "You're the juvenile services person?" Jamie asks, sizing him up.
He gives a thin smile, sticking out his hand. "Davis Lamond," he says. "You must be Detective Gordon." When she nods, he continues, peering at her over the rims of his wire-frame glasses, "Are you sure you want to adopt her? Older adoptees often, ah, present unique challenges—"
"What am I, a fucking pet?" Selina says, scathingly; scowling when Jamie shoots her a glare.
"Yes, I'm certain," she says.
Lamond nods; the motion a jerk of the head more than a proper nod. "Right," he says, and rifles through the manilla file in his grip, pulling out two identical papers. Tapping the page, he says, "Sign here, here, and here, and then you're good to go—we already did a background check on you—" he offers a fleeting quirk of his lips, and adds, "not that we were expecting anything to come up, you understand, just to ensure her safety."
"Of course," Jamie says. "I would expect nothing less."
"Right, right, well," he hands her the papers and a pen. "You keep one copy, and we—juvenile services—keep the other, for record purposes and such." Taking one of the papers back once Jamie's signed it, he adjusts his cuffs and tips his head to Jamie and Selina. "Good day, Detective, Ms. Kyle." With that, he turns on his heel, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving Selina and Jamie alone with each other.
A few beats of silence pass; long and oppressive; and then Selina says, haltingly, "Just so you know, I'm not calling you 'Mom'."
Jamie's lips quirk. "Nah," she says, "Jamie'll be just fine. Honestly, it'd be a bit weird—I'm only twenty-five, I think I'm a bit young to be your mom. Cool older cousin, maybe." That brings a smile to Selina's lips. "So," she says, "how does it feel to be officially out of the juvenile system?"
"How does it feel to be an official parent?" Selina counters.
"Touché," Jamie acknowledges; and then grimaces. "I have to get back to my desk—I have to talk to my partner about a case."
Selina hums. "So, I'm guessing you don't like him much?"
"Not really," Jamie admits. "And I can't officially file for a transfer until I'm a senior detective, which isn't for two more years, or until Bullock dies, which, with my luck, won't happen any time soon. Anyway, I'll be back in a few minutes to take you back to my apartment, so don't cause any trouble."
"I'd never ," Selina says; widening her eyes innocently. The act is somewhat spoilt by the fact that she palms Alavrez's driver's ID when the man brushes past them.
Jamie rolls her eyes. "I caught that," she says, sternly, "hand it over."
Pouting slightly, Selina does as told; and Jamie takes it back, dropping it intoo the lost and found tray. "If you're good," she says, "we can go get ice cream at the fancy sundae shop on Main Street."
"I like cake better," Selina says.
"Alright, then we'll go get cake," Jamie promises, and leaves the girl sitting on one of the benches as she makes her way back to her desk. Bullock's abandoned his paperwork in favour of the case file they were given, which Jamie takes as a good sign. "I have to go back to my place," she says, grabbing her jacket off the back of her chair. "Can you look into it and see where the weather balloon was bought from?"
"Walmart?" the other detective hazards.
Jamie scowls. "They don't sell weather balloons at Walmart," she says. "I'm pretty sure you need a license to buy them."
He sighs. "Fine. I'll go do that while you run off to do whatever it is you need to do back at your place."
She barely resists rolling her eyes; instead, opting for a controlled nod. Turning on her heel, she makes her way back to Selina, whose resorted to lounging on the bench, indigo wings half-splayed. When she catches sight of Jamie, she straightens up. "We going now?" she demands. "I was good—no items, see?" She turns her pockets inside out before shoving them back in.
Jamie nods. "Thanks," she says. "We can go now. Uh, also, I was wondering if you could tell me what you saw the night of the Waynes' murders on the way there?"
Selina's expression falls slightly; and she slumps. "Alright," she sighs; and explains how she came to be in the alley the Waynes were killed in, and how she had hidden in the fire escape and watched the entire thing unfold—young Bruce, hiding behind his parents; Martha Wayne's pearl necklace ripped from her fingers and broken, the pearls disappearing downt the drain; the killer, incensed, turning on her and shooting her and then her husband. "I followed him for a bit afterwards," she admits. "Morbid curiosity or what, I don't know. He did take the skii mask off eventually, though. He was older, with grey hair."
Frowning, she rubs her fingers together, and then snaps them. "Oh, right! He had to answer his phone—called the other person 'M'lady', if that helps. Said something about a philosopher and matches, too," she adds. "Sounded a bit nuts to me, honestly."
"I'll look into the names," Jamie says. "After we get your cake, though, you'll need to stay in my apartment for the rest of my shift, seeing as how you aren't in school, and I can't just let you roam the streets by yourself."
Selina sighs. " Fine, " she says. "Can we at least stop by where I was camping out and grab my cats? I only have the two, and they're shelter cats, so they're vaccinated and fixed and everything."
Jamie considers it for a long moment before sighing. "Alright," she says. "Be glad I own my apartment—I doubt any landlord in the area would be willing to allow pets. I have, uh, books and some video games, too," she offers, "if you need something to entertain yourself."
Selina's obviously not really paying attention, though, as they've come to the patisserie. "Uh huh," she says, and yanks the door open, scampering inside, leaving Jamie to follow after her at a more moderate pace. Once she gets to the counter, Selina says, "I can have any of these, right?"
"Yeah," Jamie confirms. "I mean, I wouldn't really suggest the ones with a ton of sugar in them, but you can have them if that's what you want."
Selina grins. "I'll have the double chocolate chocolate chip brownie," she says, to the woman at the cash-register.
After Selina eats her cake, they take the bus to an abandoned building just outside of city limits. Jiggling the door handle, Selina manages to get the door to open, and a moment later, they're greeted by twin meows, and a tortie and a tuxedo cat come bolting from around the corner. Selina drops to her knees, letting them climb into her lap. "Hello," she croons, petting them. To Jamie, she says, "this is Rosemary—" she indicates the tortie—"and this is Thyme."
Jamie raises a brow. "Rosemary and Thyme," she repeats. "Alright. Well, do you have a carrier for them, or anything?"
"Mhm," Selina says, standing, and making her way further into the building. She disappears into a room, returning a moment later with two crates, one in each hand. "Someone threw these out a while ago and I found them," she explains. "I used them to take Rosemary and Thyme in to the vet's after I found them."
"So they weren't shelter cats."
"They were in the shelter for a few hours," Selina says, "so they're shelter cats." And then, expression stricken, for a moment, "You're not going to take back—you promised—"
Jamie holds up a hand. "Deep breaths," she says. "I did promise. I'm not going back on that promise. I was just kidding."
"Oh." Selina scuffs her boot against the floor and mumbles something indistinct, before she says, "Well, we should get the two of them into their crates."
Jamie nods, and picks up Rosemary, opening one of the crates with her free hand and popping the cat inside. She walks around in a circle a few times before settling down, and Jamie marvels at how well-adjusted she seems.
Once Selina gets Thyme into her crate, Jamie picks up both crates, and then, at Selina's insistence, hands one of them over. They catch the bus back to Jamie's, and Jamie deposits the cat crate on the floor in the middle of the living room before opening it and letting the cat out. Selina mirrors the process with her own crate.
"Alright," Jamie says. "I have to get back to the precinct, but I'll be back in a few hours. There's bread and stuff for sandwiches in the fridge if you get hungry."
Selina nods. With that, Jamie bids her goodbyes and makes her way to the subway station, catching the metro to the precinct. Making her way into the lobby, two familiar faces appear before her, blocking her entrance into the bullpen. "Alan, Montoya," she greets, neutrally, and tries to sidestep them.
Montoya's hand flashes out, suddenly gripping her arm. "We're not done with you yet," she says.
Jamie sighs. "If this is something about Barabara—"
Montoya's face twitches. "It's not," she snaps. "We know you killed Osvalda Cobblepot."
Jamie can't help it; she laughs in the other's face. Prying the detective's fingers off her arm—eyes catching on the gemstone-studden golden band on her ring finger—she says, "I most certainly did not. You have no evidence to suggest I did."
"We know you're lying," Alan sneers.
"We'll get you convicted," Montoya promises; and as Jamie shoves past her, leans in to whisper, " black-wing. "
Jamie spins, unable to control her expression. "I can and will file a report with HR," she hisses. "What the two of you are doing could be considered harrassment, and I doubt it'll look good that you keep using a derogatory term to refer to me. Now, unless you have a legitimate issue to discuss with me, I'm needed."
Increasing her pace to a brisk walk, she makes her way into the bullpen and up the stairs to where her own and Bullock's desks are. Grabbing the case file, she begins to pace before her desk as she goes over the information within it, despite the fact that she's already read it.
"What's got you in a twist?" Bullock says, raising a brow at her.
Too angry to deny that there's anything wrong, Jamie just hisses, "Alan and Montoya."
"There's no evidence tying you to any crime," Bullock says; deudcing the issue. "And besides, Cobblepot was probably a criminal anyway—I doubt any judge will much care even if the case was brought before them—"
"Shut up," Jamie snaps. "Look, we have a man to question, right? Let's stop talking about Montoya and Alan, and get to that. What's his name, anyway?"
Bullock snorts; but lets it drop with a muttered, fine. "Jimmy Wilkes," he says, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Jamie. "The man owns the only weather-balloon company in Gotham. I've gotten him to come in for questioning while you were off running around—you're welcome, by the way."
Jamie sighs. He does have a point, she supposes. "Thanks," she says, grudgingly. "Alright. Let's go see him, then."
Bullock rises from his chair, and leads her down the hallway to an interrogation room. Within, a gangly man with a shock of white hair is sitting in one of the chairs at the desk, his hands in his lap. Jamie sits down a the other chair. "Mister Wilkes," she begins. "We just want to ask you a question or two about your balloons. Have any of them gone missing or anything recently?"
He blinks. "Yeah, actually, how did you know?"
"I can't divulge that. Do you know who might be responsible."
He hums. "Uh, yeah, maybe. There's—well, there was, this kid, Carl Smikers, who worked for me for a bit. Highschool dropout—had, uh, shifty fingers, if you get what I mean. He quit the day that the balloons missing."
"Balloons, plural? " Bullock asks.
Wilkes nods. "Four of them," he says. "Went missing, uh, two weeks ago?" he scratches the back of his neck.
Jamie and Bullock exchange glances. Well, shit, Jamie thinks. Three more balloons—three more people for the Balloonman to target. To Wilkes, she says, "Thank you. That'll be all."
When she gets home, the TV is on; and a news anchor is reporting on another Balloonman murder. Jamie feels suddenly exhausted. "Can you turn that off?" she asks Selina. When the other frowns at her, she says, "It's been a long day at work and I don't want to hear about more people dying."
After a beat, Selina does as told. One of the cats jumps into her lap, and, petting her, she says, "You're working the case, aren't you?"
There's no point in trying to deny it; Selina will probably just resent her if she lies about it. Jamie nods. "Yeah," she says. "There's going to be at least two more murders as far as I can tell."
Selina hums. "You know, I think I can see where whoever it is is coming from, honestly."
Jamie shrugs; pulling some paperwork out of her briefcase. "I think a lot of us can," she replies, honestly, settling down on the stool at the bar, "Gotham is, well. Corrupt." She doesn't bother sugar-coating it, because she's pretty sure Selina is wildly aware of the fact. "GCPD officers are often bribed into turning a blind eye to crime, so it's understandable that someone finally snapped and started getting rid of criminals their own way. To be honest," she sighs, "Gotham's probably not a particularly safe place to live."
"And yet, here we are," Selina says, softly. "Then again, we're all mad in Gotham, I suppose."
The gloomy statement hovers over them for the rest of the evening; and when she falls asleep that night, it's to her mind conjuring up images of the the dead bodies of Cranston and Danzer, their faces frozen in perpetual screams.
The next day, Essen calls her and Bullock into her office. "The Balloonman case needs to be wrapped up," she snaps. "The papers are starting to get sympathetic towards the perp." She draws a hand through her hair, and sighs. "Do either of you have any idea who the next victims might be?"
Surprisingly, it's Bullock who answers. "If they fit the profiles of the last two, they'll be well-known," he answers. "Model citizens on the outside, but known to be corrupt." Jamie blinks; slightly startled by the on-point assessment.
"Unfortunately," Essen says, bitterly, "this is Gotham, so that hardly narrows it down."
"We do have a lead, though," Jamie pipes up. "We can go track him down and question him."
Essen nods. "Do that," she orders.
The two of them spend the rest of the day tracking down Carl Smikers. Eventually, they find him squating in an abandoned house not too far from the one that Jamie and Selina visited a few days before.
Bullock instantly begins to try and intimidate the man. Within moments, Smikers is stuttering, "I had nothing to do with it, I swear! I just sold the balloons to make some money!"
Bullock sneers at him; disbeliving. "Yeah, and you're a secret criminal mastermind, seeing as how the Balloonman's come up with the perfect crime—dispose of the bodies and the balloons in one go, nice and easy." Turning to meet Jamie's gaze, he adds, "Two ravens with one stone." His words hover in the air, becoming charged, and Jamie resists the urge to flinch.
Smikers' expression morphs into confusion. "What?" he says. "No, I might be an idiot, but I did learn some things from working with Jimmy. The balloons'll come down eventually." Bullock gives him a sharp look, and he quickly hurries to explain, "As they rise higher in the air, the helium inside expands and the balloon becomes brittle from the cold air. Eventually it pops."
"So we're going to be seeing bodies falling from the sky," Jamie surmises, grimly.
That, apparently, is a rather accurate prediction; as a few hours later, she and Bullock are called out to a scene of two dead bodies—one of them, an old woman, blood on her head from where it hit the pavement. On top of her is the frozen, barely recognisable form of Lieutenant Bill Cranston. Personally, Jamie thinks he looks better that way.
"Looks like you were right about that bodies falling from the sky shit," Bullock says. "Apparently, he hit her hard enough to kill her."
Jamie grimaces; and then says, "There's been another victim. Cardinal Quinn, prominent member of the Roman-Catholic church. He was facing charges for sexually abusing children until they were mysteriously dropped."
Bullock frowns; and she can see the gears whirring in his mind.
There's a tap on her shoulder, drawing her attention away from the older detective. "Ed!" she exclaims, when she turns around to see the auburn-haired woman.
The forensic analyst smiles nervously; but the expression lights up her entire face. "Jamie," she says, "you're just who I was looking for. I was just about to start my lunch break over at the café across the street, but I thought I'd pop over and see if I could help, and, what do you know," she passes Jamie an evidence bag; a crumpled piece of paper within that's been smoothed out, looking like it was torn from something, and—wait a moment, that's her signature! "This was clutched in Cranston's fist," Ed says.
She purses her lips; trying to remember what she's signed recently; and then it clicks. "Oh!" she exclaims, "I know who the Balloonman is! Thank you, Ed! Remember to eat something!" she calls over her shoulder as she races back towards the precinct, Bullock following behind her.
Making her way to the fileroom, she flicks through the drawers until she gets to the ones marked L, and peruses them until she finds what she's looking for. "Here we go!" she says. "Davis Lamond, Gotham Juvenile Services employee for the last fifteen years. He was brought in a while ago on a robbery charge, apparently, but it was dismissed in court."
Bullock scratches his head. "What does that have to do with the paper, though?" he asks, gesturing at the evidence bag.
Jamie sighs. It was going to get out eventually, she consoles herself. "I adopted one of the kids from the case a while back," she explains, "Lamond was the one who came to give me the papers. That's from Lamond's copy of the adoption form. Cranston probably found it when he was looking for an ID."
"Why would Lamond be carrying around a copy?" Bullock asks.
"No idea," Jamie says, "but this is the best lead we've gotten on a suspect so far, so unless you want to go tell the Captain why you dismissed it, I think we should go tell her that we have a lead."
Bullock grumbles. "Fine," he says. "Let's go, then."
They make their way to the Captain's office; and Jamie explains her theory to the older woman. Scanning the file, she frowns. "His coworkers describe him as sweet, dedicated, and motivated," she says. "What would have caused someone like that to snap and start killing people?"
Jamie shrugs. "I have no clue," she says. "But it's the best lead we've got."
Essen sighs. "Alright," she says. "Get to it."
Jamie nods; and she and Bullock exit the office.
The first place they search for the man is his home; but he's not there; so they turn to the second posibility: the former Juvenile Services building. Cobwebbed and abandoned, it's the perfect place for someone to store something without arrousing suspicion. It's also condemned, which generally keeps people away.
They circle the perimeter quietly; there's no need to alert Lamond to their presence if he is indeed here.
It's in the back, right outside the garage—hidden by what appears to have once been a well-maintained hedge—that they find a van. In the back is the fourth weather balloon, deflated, but still recognisable. Jamie's just about to step forward to inspect it from a closer vantage, when a muffled yelp from Bullock makes her whip around.
Lamond stands, gun drawn, the barrel pressed to Bullock's head. "What crime am I guilty of?" he says, voice almost lyrical. "Killing men like Cranston, and Quinn, and Danzer?"
"The law is supposed to punish those mens' crimes," Jamie replies; but Lamond just laughs. Honestly, Jamie...can't find it in herself to blame him. The words sit like ash on her tongue.
"The law shields men like them from justice," Lamond corrects, once his bout of laughter passes. The gun's slipped slightly, and he readjusts his grip on it. "I've watched, silent, for seventeen years as the corruption in this city's festered, doing nothing ," he spits, "just like everyone else, until Mayor James used the excuse of the homeless childrens' abductions to lock up all the street kids in juvenile prison without so much as a sham trial." He bares his teeth.
In his passionate speech, though, he's failed to notice Bullock moving, and that's his mistake. Bullock twists out of his grip and leaps forward. It's a blur—it happens so quickly, Jamie isn't sure if she remembers exactly what occurs—but somehow, Bullock manages to attach the final balloon to Lamond.
He begins to rise; and Jamie leaps forward, trying to weigh the balloon down. It works, somewhat; the balloon's ascent slowed significantly, but within fifteen seconds, they're already five feet off the ground.
"Just let go of him, Gordon!" Bullock shouts; and for a moment, she's tempted. Then, she remembers what she said to Lamond.
"No!" she shouts. A minute passes as Bullock tries to convince her to come down, and by then, the balloon's risen a good twenty more feet. Bullock lets out a growl and yanks his gun from its holster, shooting the balloon.
As soon as the bullet punctures it, she and Lamond plummet to the ground; Jamie landing on top of the man, and there's a painful sounding crunch from beneath her.
She gets to her feet, slightly unsteady, and checks Lamond's pulse. It's strong, beating regularly, and she lets out a sigh of relief. "He's alive," she reports to Bullock, and orders him to call the ambulance. He doesn't seem too happy, but he nods anyway. Checking Lamond's neck, she realises that he has a fractured vertebra; and stills her search for the handcuffs—trying to cuff him bight just injure him worse.
By the time the ambulance arrives, Lamond's blinking to consciousness, whimpering as the injury registers. Jamie drags Bullock to the EMTs to tell them what happened, and then goes to make sure Lamond doesn't try and escape.
"That's a nasty one," an EMT comments, as he and his partner carefully put a neck-brace on the man's neck, and then load him onto a stretcher. "You're lucky you didn't get hurt."
Jamie grimaces. "Trust me, I know," she replies; and then, out of some sort of morbid curiosity, makes her way to Lamond's side. "Who was your last target?"
He laughs. "It doesn't matter now, does it?" he replies; and then, just before the EMT closes the doors of the ambulance, his voice ringing out warningly, "more vigilantes will follow in my path."
His words hang in the air as the ambulance drives away; and Jamie finds herself suddenly feeling cold.
When she gets back, Selina looks up from where she's curled on the sofa reading a book. "You're bleeding," she remarks, calmly, eying Jamie's cheek. It's only then that she realises that it's even bleeding.
"Oh," she says.
Selina sighs, and shakes her head. "One of these days, you're going to get stabbed and not realise it and bleed out," she warns. "Which would be awful for me, so make sure to check yourself for injuries, okay?"
Jamie laughs slightly, rolling her eyes, making her way to the kitchen sink and pulling out a bottle of iodine from beneath it, cleaning the wound. "What should we order for dinner?" she asks. Usually, she makes a stew or puts something on in the crockpot, but the day's run her ragged, and she doesn't feel up to make anything.
"Chinese," Selina replies instantly.
"You'll have to order," Jamie warns. "I need a shower. The phonebook is under the coffee-table," she tosses over her shoulder, going to grab a towel and a set of pyjamas. Behind her, Selina mutters something about how old-fashioned she is.
After a quick shower to scrub off the dirt and blood and ease her aching muscles, she turns the water off and prepares herself for the cold that will hit her as soon as she opens the shower door. Well, better get it over with quickly, she thinks, and opens the door.
The cold air whistles in through the door, and Jaimie shivers, grabbing her towel from where it's folded on the closed toilet lid; drying off, and pulls on a grey shirt and sweat-pants. Thankfully, her hair, being relatively short, doesn't stay wet for ages as it would if it were longer, despite being fairly thick; and a quick towelling gets rid of most of the moisture that's there, anyway.
The aroma of food wafts in as she opens the bathroom door. Selina's already sitting at the coffee table, digging into a box of fried rice with a spoon. She swallows a bite. "I got you spring rolls and potstickers, " she says, gesturing to the two unopened boxes.
"Thanks," Jaimie replies, tears open a small packet of soy sauce into a small bowl. Selina steals one of her spring rolls. "Do you want any soy sauce?" Jaimie asks.
"No, thank you," Selina makes a face. "That stuff tastes disgusting."
Jamie shrugs. "Your loss," she says.
"Whatever," Selina says, and continues eating the spring rolls dry. Heathen.
A moment later, the doorbell rings, and Selina rises to get it. There's a moment of silence, and then Selina says, "Hey, Jamie? You might want to come see who's at the door."