It's a grisly case, Jamie'll give it that. Perhaps not the worst she's encountered, but certainly enough to turn most stomachs. The bruising is ugly, and there's lots of blood, the victim's skin torn up in multiple places—and that's just from the photos.

"Pass it here," Bullock says; annoyance in his tone. She's only had the file for two minutes; and she considers pettiness, but decides that it won't make much of a difference—her memory's pretty good.

She hands the file over, watching his face. He flips through the first two pages before he gets to the photos, and that's when it gets interesting. His face pales, fear clear in his eyes. It's unlikely to be the graphic nature of the images, either. Interesting—perhaps a prior connection to the case?

"What is it?" she asks.

He closes his eyes; flickering rapidly beneath his eyelids; and sucks in a deep, suspiciously wet breath. "It's arranged in the same way that Randall Milke's victims were," he confesses; heavily.

"Randall Milke?" Jamie questions, surprised. She recognises the name—it was before her time on the force, but it's one of those things that parents talk about late at night, unaware that their children can hear them through the walls. "You mean the crazy guy who called himself the Spirit of the Goat? I thought he was dead."

There's a moment of silence. She suspects Bullock is steadying himself. When he speaks, his tone is grim. "He is. But that—that's exactly how he arranged his victims. And if there's a copycat? Well..." The words hang in the air like a dark shadow; frigid, and goosebumps break out over the nape of Jamie's neck.

Renee leans forward slightly; eager. Well, why shouldn't I be? This is her chance to put Gordon behind bars; let her rot with the other freaks. The man's confession is the last piece of the puzzle, and she has it in her reach.

"Yeah," he confirms, "about five nine-ish, blonde, wearing a GCPD uniform."

Excitement sparks in Renee. But—she has to make sure. "Did she happen to shoot a short, black-haired woman?" It all hinges on this. Say yes.

He tips his head; turns the question over in his mind. By Renee's side, Crispus Alan shifts from foot to foot.

Slowly, the man says, "Yeah, actually—I'm not surprised, though. She had big raven's wings, and everyone knows ravens are bad news. After she shot the poor woman, she tossed her into the river."

Yes. Yes! "Thank you," she says; clicking the recorder off; slips it back into her bag.

As they walk away, Crispus comments, nonplussed, "Raven. Huh. Can't say I'm surprised, what with how she killed Cobblepot immediately. Do you think we'd be able to get her fired for that? It's easier to imprison civilians than cops—"

Renee shakes her head, cutting him off. "You know she can't be fired for that," she reminds him. "And anyway, if we tried to use her raven status to argue that she was a predestined killer, she could use an insanity or mental illness plea."

Crispus opens his mouth; thinks better of it; frowns, but doesn't push the point. They both know she's right.

"Anyway," Renee says, shifting her bag slightly up from where it's slipping off her shoulder, "with this testimony, there's nothing Gordon can do to wriggle out of jail."

The Hastings' home is a modern, sleek townhouse, painted in shades of grey-blues, complementing the silvery metal. Well-maintained, but fairly impersonal; almost austere. It's cold out, and Jamie shivers, having forgotten to bring her jacket.

The inside is another story. There are shelves upon shelves of kitschy knick-knacks, covered by a thin sheen of dust. The couches, dotted around the living room, are overstuffed, and obviously well-loved. There are rips on some of the arms, which Jamie recognises as cat-induced—there are a few of them on the sofa back at home.

Mr. Hastings greets them at the door. "Excuse me, Mr. Hastings," Jamie says, as she and Bullock pull out their badges, "we're here with the GCPD—can we ask you a few questions?"

"Of course, of course," he says; ushering them in. "I take it you're here about...Amanda?" His voice wavers slightly; the only visible sign of his grief.

Bullock nods. "We're sorry about your loss," he says; and for once the line doesn't sound rote. "We need you to tell us anything you can think of that might help us solve her—death."

Hastings nods; leads them into a room down the hallway—practically bare in comparison to the rest of the house, with only a desk, a chair, and a sofa. On the sofa sit Mrs. Hastings and an oddly familiar looking man wearing black gloves and with a handsome tophat over perfectly-groomed light-brown curls, which just reach his jaw.

When they enter, he stands; expression flickering for a beat, and then holds out his hand. "Detectives, I'm Doctor Henry Marks—the family therapist." His voice is—not what she'd expected on seeing him. He speaks with a low drawl.

She takes his gloved hand; shakes it. "Detective Jamie Gordon," she replies. "I'm here with my partner, Detective Bullock, about Amanda Hastings."

Marks nods. "Of course," he says.

With the introductions out of the way, they begin to question the Hastings. Unfortunately, the questions lead nowhere but dead ends—no, Amanda wouldn't do this, no, Amanda would never do that! Jamie can practically see Bullock's patience wearing thin, and, honestly, she's just as frustrated.

That's when something finally happens. "Can you think of anyone who'd want to harm Amanda?" Bullock asks; and Mr. Hastings shakes his head.

"No, no, not Amanda," he protests. "She was very popular—everyone loved her."

Though his tone carries grief, it seems... controlled . Mechanical, almost like he's practiced the words hundreds of times in front of a mirror.

Jamie glances at Bullock, an unspoken agreement passing between them. "Thank you for you help," Jamie says, finally. "I'm sorry for your loss."

As they get into the car, the faux-leather seats cold, Bullock comments. "Huh. Did you notice Hasting's hands? They kept clenching and unclenching." He hums, before dismissing it. "Nah, it's probably nothing—everyone has their nervous tics."

Jamie frowns, filing the information away—it might be nothing, but it's better safe than sorry.

The car engine rumbles, the car bouncing slightly as they pass over uneven areas in the road, and, before she knows it, they're back at the precinct. Which, honestly, is fine with her—the precinct is nice and warm, a respite from the chill outside, and in the squad car, with its half-functional heating system.

She sits down at her desk; goes through the file again. Nothing stands out—at first. Then she comes to the photos, and pauses. One of them looks almost perfectly normal, except there's something off at the base of Amanda's neck. She flips through the photos, checks the other side shots of the young woman, and pulls out the file Bullock gave her on Milke's case, checking the photos from it as well, and—yes, there it is. They all have it. It almost looks like the photo is warped, but that can't be right—there's no change in texture.

Jamie frowns. She needs a second set of eyes on this—and she knows just who to ask.

She finds Ed in her office, a laser-pointer in hand, a frown on her face, glasses slightly askew, painting a somewhat frazzled— and , her mind adds, adorable —picture. She knocks on the doorframe; leans in partially.

"Jamie!" Ed exclaims.

Her hand twitches, and the laser goes spiralling, hitting Jamie in the eyes. Instinctively, she closes them and yelps, "Ouch!"

"Ah—oh, sorry," Ed says, sheepishly; turning off the laser-pointer. "Sorry about that—are you alright?"

"Yeah, no, I'm fine," Jamie reassures, blinking away the spots in her vision. "Just, uh, a bit—bright. It's kind of overcast outside," she hurries to explain, suddenly feeling flustered. "I'm fine, really—just came to ask if you could take a second glance at some photos for me?"

Ed blinks. "Uh, sure," she says. "Pass them this way, then."

Jamie sets the photos down. "These are from the Spirit of the Goat case, ten years ago," she says. "And these are from the Amanda Hastings case, a few days ago. Bullock said that she was arranged the same as the Spirit victims—that there might be a copycat—, and I compared the photos, and they've all got something weird going on around the neck."

Ed picks up a photo; peering at it intently before reaching for another to repeat the process. "Huh," she says, finger hovering over the same spot Jamie had been scrutinising. "That's...strange. There appears to be some sort of incision made at the base of the skull—about an inch wide. I can't really tell from this angle, but you're right, it's on all the victims, including Hastings. Are you certain Milke is dead?" she asks; voice a mixture of puzzlement and curiosity.

"Yeah," Jamie confirms, feeling disturbed. "Died in custody—started thrashing around the interrogation room, mumbling nonsense. Right about scared the crap out of the officers on the other side of the mirror."

Quietly, as if afraid of what she's about to say, Ed says, "Well, the only things I can think of are that he trained someone to follow in his footsteps, or that he's mysteriously risen from the dead." Pursing her lips, she adds, "I can take a look into the archives if you want, but I don't think I'll be able to find much—if it wasn't in the autopsy, then it's unlikely that anyone knew about it, or if they did...they never told anyone."

"No, no, that's fine," Jamie says, quickly. "I won't trouble you. Thanks for your help, though." She flashes Ed a smile as the woman hands the photos back; their fingers brushing for a brief second.

When she gets back to her desk, Bullock's waiting. It doesn't take long for them to fall into arguing about the case again. "There's no sign of forced entry in any of the past cases or Amanda's," Jamie protests, when he suggests the killer could have forced the window open. Frowning, she suggests, "Maybe he had a set of keys—and, baring a family member, those are only available to security companies and cleaning services."

That seems to jolt his memory; and he says, slowly, like he's turning the words over in his mind, "Wait—Milke was a security guard. Hey, I bet Riddles—" Jamie glares at him, and he hastily backtracks—"uh, Nygma, could take a look into it if you asked."

Grudgingly, she concedes the point. "I'll send her a text." Then, remembering the reason she went to see the forensic analyst earlier, she adds, "Hey, was there, uh, a cut at the base of the victims' skulls in the Spirit case? Because I think that Hastings has the same incision."

Bullock freezes. Voice low, he says, "No one else knew about that."

"So that's a yes, then?"

"We need to go the ME," Bullock says, grimly.

Making their way to the medical examiner's room in the basement doesn't take long; and before she knows it, she's standing before Amanda Hastings.

Laying beneath a sheet, pulled back so they can see her head, Hastings' skin is an unhealthy pallor, blue veins showing clearly beneath it. The bruising around her neck, just above where the sheet's folded back, is deep, dark purple-black, green, and dirty-yellow around the main ring. The blood has been cleaned off her face, but it's left discolouration on her pale skin, like watermarks.

"What can I do for you today, Detectives?" the ME, Leslie Thompkins, asks.

"Could you check the back of her neck for us, Doc?" Bullock asks.

Thompkins tilts the corpse's head to the side; and a thin line of something catches the light, glinting a dull bronze, hidden mostly beneath the skin, where there's a neat incision. Thompkins snaps her gloves and reaches to pull it out. "Is that—?" Jamie asks, unable to finish the sentence.

"A penny?" Bullock asks; and then, grimly: "yeah. That's what I was afraid of."

Jamie shoots Bullock a questioning look. The sight of the coin's unsettled Bullock, and she can tell. He looks jittery; on edge. Jamie shoots him a questioning look.

"I'll explain when we get to the Captain's office," Bullock says, tersely; and practically storms out of the room. Jamie sends the ME an apologetic grimace.

Essen awaits them in her office. "Well?" she says; expectant.

"It's exactly the same. Right down to the penny," Bullock confirms, not meeting her eyes.

Essen's lips twist in puzzlement. "Penny?" she questions.

"Milke put a penny underneath the scalp every one of his victims," Bullock explains, voice slightly strained. "We left it out of the reports and media coverage 'cause we knew Milke probably had admirers—it was to separate out copycat killings. But only my old partner Dix, the ME at the time, Richard Hays, and I knew about it. And Hays is dead." A grim silence settles over them like a miasma, heavy and oppressive.

Essen breaks the silence. "Go pay a visit to Dix," she says. "See if he told anyone, or has any insight about the case."

They nod. "Yes, Captain!"

The sharp rap of knuckles on wood, the faded 9 painted on the door, all bring back memories to Osvalda; some more bitter than pleasant, regret and guilt tinging them a sour shade. She raises her hand to knock again; hears, from within, a voice call, "I'm coming, I'm coming, haven't you police anything better to do than inter—Osvalda?"

Her mom's hands fly up to her face; and then she pulls her into a tight hug, as if letting her go would make her disappear. Osvalda rubs a hand in circles on her back, lingering slightly on the soft texture of her shawl.

"Mom, it's okay, I'm back, I'm alright," she soothes, hugging back tightly. "I'm fine—I'm fine, mom, I promise."

Voice slightly choked up, Gertrud says, "Oh, my Osvaclda, I knew you hadn't run away from me—I told those police that you would never do that to your poor mother! Oh, come, come, let me make you something to eat—you are so thin! And your lips are blue! No, no, this will not do, come in, come in," she fusses; herding Osvaclda inside, the faint scent of cinnamon and cloves practically making her weep.

Gertrud bundles her up in blankets and forces her to sit down while she sets a pot on the stove and starts making soup. Osvalda tries to protest that she's fine, really, and can't she help? but Gertrud steamrolls over her and piles another blanket atop her instead.

For a while, the soft bubbling of the pot and the rustle of cloth and the strady thumping of her heart are the only sounds. Beneath the blankets, Osvalda mulls over her thoughts, separating the threads of memories. Then, quietly, she says, "You were right, mom—all I wanted was a bit of respect, and they hurt me—so cruelly."

"Oh, the bullies!" Gertrud exclaims; clasping Osvalda's hands between her own. "It was the same for me as a child. They are jealous of you, Osvalda—they know you are destined for greater things than them, and it scares them."

Earnestly, Osvalda says, "One day, mom, I'll be someone important, I swear." She grips her mother's hands, tries to convey the emotions roiling withing her with the touch of skin against skin.

Gertrud smiles, pride on her face.

Ed flips through the files, muttering under her breath as she goes, lost in thought. As such, she doesn't notice when Kristen calls her name—several times, in face. Finally, Kristen puts her han on Ed's shoulder and shakes her, before letting go, says, "Ed!" sharply.

That draws Ed out of her mind. Surprised, she blinks. "Wh—oh! Kristen. Sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

"Not that I don't enjoy the company," Kristen says, wryly, "but what are you doing down here?"

"Just, um, looking—looking into, an, um, case, for Det—Jamie," Ed stutters; ears reddening; and she ducks her head to try and hide it. Kristen smiles, shaking her head slightly at her friend's expression.

"You're totally gone on her, aren't you?" she asks; amused.

Eyes wide, Ed practically squeaks, "No, why—why would you think that?"

Kristen rests a comforting hand on the taller woman's shoulder; says, softly, "I know you're still...well, terrified of yourself and what you might do after Dougherty, but, Ed..." she hesitates. "I think that Detective Gordon—"

Ed shakes her head; a few stray hairs bouncing with the motion, and says, insistently, "No, no, nope. It's just a stupid crush, Kristen. It'll go away so long as I don't act on it. Anyway...I don't want to hurt her."

Kristen sighs; but doesn't prod further; sensing Ed's unwillingness to discuss the topic. "Do you need any help finding things?" she asks. "I know you can't find anything down here—you always complain about how things are filed without following any logical pattern."

Ed smiles; relieved. "Yeah, that'd be...yes please."

The television makes for a droning white noise in the background. There hasn't been much on besides the Hastings murder, the media understandably in a frenzy over the prospect of a possible Milke-copycat. It's died down a bit, but it's still the topic of much speculation.

"Master Bruce, I'm surprised you aren't more worried," Alfred comments idly. "After all, you are in the target group of the murderer—firstborn of a wealthy family and all that rot."

"It's simple, really," Bruce replies; apparently unthinkingly. "There's no one in this world left whom I could be taken from." From where he's sitting he doesn't see Alfred's eyes cloud over, wet with tears he won't shed.

Unaware, Bruce clicks off the TV and stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Alfred, I think I may have found some leads—I need to speak with Mr. Lucius Forx."

Alfred shakes his head as the boy leaves; muttering, "That stubborn, clueless little bastard." With that, he himself rises as well, and begins to put away the files Bruce has left splayed out on the table.

"We're here to see Liam Dix," Jamie informs the nurse at the front desk; passing her badge over at the nurse's searching look. "We're with the GCPD."

"Ah," the woman acknowledges, pushing her chair out slightly and grabbing a clipboard from a drawr in a motion that makes her grey and blue feathers flutter. She drags a finger down the clipboard, eyes flickering down the lines. "Here we go—room 423. Go down the hallway to your left and take the first right turn, and it's the fourth room on your right."

"Thanks," Jamie says, dipping her head to the nurse. As they walk down the hall, Bullock is uncharacteristically quiet, and Jamie wonders who Dix is to Bullock, exactly.

When they get to the room, Bullock hangs back; so Jamie raps on the door. From the other side, a hoarse, weary voice calls out, "Come in."

She opens the door and walks in, Bullock dogging her steps. A man in a wheelchair meets her gaze before glancing behind her, and blinks. "Harv? What're you doing here? And who's that?" he questions; moving closer to Bullock, who's now standing next to Jamie.

Bullock smiles falteringly, and says, quietly, "Dix. This is...my new—partner. Jamie Gordon."

"Pleased to meet—"

Dix cuts her off sharply. "Cut the pleasantries. I take it—" he stops, doubling over as a hacking cough wracks his frame. He can't be much older than Bullock, but there's a frailty to him. "I take it you're here about the Hastings death?" he continues. "There's the penny, isn't there?"

Jamie takes a moment to balance herself. She hadn't expected Dix's to the point attitude. "Yes—anything you might be able to tell us could help."

"As if," Dix says; a bitter edge to his tone. "I suppose you haven't considered that Milke had an accomplice? Or that he was part of a larger operation?" he questions.

"Whoever the copycat is, he must have learnt about the pennies from a source inside the GCPD," Bullock protests. "We're one hundred percent sure there's no variations in the crime scenes—they're identical. The only way that's possible is if they got the information from the inside."

After that, the conversation is mostly spent; and Bullock exits the room, practically fleeing. Jamie makes to follow him, but Dix calls her back.

"Gordon," he says. "Watch out for Harvey. He's a loose canon, likes to think of himself as some sort of white knight, always wanting to charge in to the rescue. He never did get that in Gotham there are no heroes."

"Are you sure we're talking about the same Harvey Bullock?" Jamie questions, and turns to leave. This time, Dix doesn't stop her; the silence in her wake loud.

As she gets closer to the lobby, she hears Bullock speaking with the nurse at the front desk. "...right. And send a gift package, would you? Just charge it to my account." His voice is drawn and brittle. The nurse says something indistinct, and Bullock snaps, " Yes, I'm certain. I've been paying the bills for the last sixteen years, haven't I"

That seems to be the end of the conversation; and Jamie leaves, feeling slightly guilty at the unintended eavesdropping. She takes her next steps deliberately, and when she rounds the corner, it's just Bullock, the nurse having left down the hallway.

The phone beeps; signalling the end of the call; and Renee sighs, returning to the horrendous pile of papers. Thankfully, she's almost done, but what remains is still daunting. Stretching, her back pops loudly, and she tips her chair back, staring at the ceiling.

Barbara's voice, unexpected, jolts her out of her half-dazed state. "Renee, please, there's no need to do this."

Renee sighs. "Barbara, I know you don't like it, but...she killed someone in cold blood," she says, softly; dragging a hand through her hair. "She deserves to be incarcerated. Anyway, I already have an eyewitness statement and a warrant."

The other bites her lip. "I know, Re, I just—I worry, you know?" Her tone wavers for a moment before she continues. "If she killed Cobblepot, then who's to say she won't kill you?"

Renee swallows. "I'll try my best not to get hurt, okay?" The promise sounds hollow, even to her, and she hopes dearly she can follow through.

"Alright," Barbara says; grudgingly; but there's still a hint of worry furrowing her brow. Renee stands, hand coming up to cup the bonde's cheek; and draws her in for a chaste kiss, relieved when the other melts into her embrace.

She pulls back a fraction; says, quietly, "I'll be fine, Barb—but just in case, how about we make some happy memories?" Though the words sound ridiculously cheesy, the sentiment behind them lends a weight to them, and Barbara nods.

"Alright," she murmurs; and draws Renee in for another kiss.

"Hey, I'll be back a bit late—Ivy and me are gonna go to the library after school." Selina's words pull her out of her book. She's had a bit of free time since the paperwork for work hasn't been too bad recently, so she's taken the time to start one of the books Ed's lent her.

She looks up, lazily petting Thyme, the black and white cat's eyes mere slits as she purrs. "Yeah, alright. Just be back by six and remember to keep your phone on," she says, and then adds, teasingly, "and try not to piss off the librarians."

Selina rolls her eyes. "Sure, sure, whatever," she grumbles.

"Hurry up, Cat, we're going to miss the bus!" Ivy's voice echoes down the hall. Selina makes her way to the door, tugging on her shoes.

Jamie smiles slightly, before returning to her book.

A few hours later, a thick file falls onto her desk with a harsh crack ; Essen's tone clipped as she says, "Ember Copley—disappeared—"

"So?" Bullock says, waving a hand, "c'mon, it's almost the end of our shift..."

"—disappeared while packing for a trip with her parents," Essen finishes, ignoring Bullock's imploring gaze. "Get me results— fast . We've got a limited time-frame, and if she dies, too...well, let's just say that it might make me consider why either of you were promoted to detectives."

Bullock huffs, but bites out a gruff, "Fine." Essen nods, disappearing quickly back into her office, leaving Jamie with Bullock.

"So," Jamie says, flipping open the file to skim the front page. There's a photo of a young girl—she can't be much older than Selina. The thought sends a shiver of dread up her spine. "So," she says, again, "we have, at most, eight hours, based on Milke's past MO."

Bullock grints. "You checked with Rid—Nygma?" he asks, barely catching himself.

"No, actually—"

He glares at her. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come on, Gordon, get going."

Jamie fights back a sharp retort; tucking the file under her arm, and pushes her chair out. The trip down to the lower levels is made bearable only by the thought of seeing Ed again—which makes her heart flutter in a way that's not altogether uncomfortable, or anything she wants to analyse at the moment.

The woman doesn't notice as she enters the room, too absorbed in her work; and Jamie clears her throat, pulling out a piece of paper from the file. "Hey, Ed, would you mind taking a look at the people on this list, please? They're cleaning security employees who work at the buildings of both the Hastings' and the Copleys'. "

Ed starts; momentarily tensing before she relaxes; taking the proffered paper, eyes flickering over it behind her glasses. "Sure," she replies. "Actually, if you give me...an hour tops, I should be able to come up with a shorter list, if you want?"

"Yeah, that'd be great," Jamie says; nearly hugging the other; and instead settles for patting her shoulder awkwardly. "Thanks, Ed, you're a lifesaver."

The flutter elicited from the resultant smile is one she shoves as far back in her mind as possible.

Exactly thirty-five minutes later, there's a soft rap on her desk; and Jamie looks up to find Ed with a piece of paper in hand. "I found something," the other announces, looking pleased.

"Oh?" Jamie breaks into a worn smile.

Ed clears her throat before beginning. "Raymond Earl," she says. "He worked for a cleaning service in both the Hastings' and Copleys' buildings. His supervisor reported that he was last seen at the abandoned theatre, the same one that Randall Milke was apprehended at," she finishes with a flourish.

"Thanks, Ed—" Jamie begins; but a second later, Bullock's shout to hurry up cuts her off. With a sheepish smile, she says, "well, I guess I gotta go."

Ed waves her off. "It's fine," she says. "You go save the day."

"You flatter me," Jamie says; drily; but takes off.

When they get to the theatre, Bullock pauses; jerking his head up towards the balcony. There, the silhouette of a goat-headed figure is visible. As they venture inside, the figure of Ember Copley, struggling to free herself, suspended in the same way as the other victims were, comes into view. Tersely, Bullock says, "Gordon, you get Copley down and I'll go deal with the Goat."

Jamie nods; hurrying towards Copley. It takes a few tries, but in the end, she manages to get the gasping girl down from where she's been suspended using one of the folding chairs tucked away in the corner.

From somewhere above, there's a shout from Bullock. "Hey, bozo, eat lead!"

He must miss; because a second later, there's a crash; and he and the Goat come tumbling down the stairs. The Goat towers above Bullock, somehow having acquired a hammer, which he raises above the Detective, ready to bring it down.

Running on pure instinct, Jamie, who's clambered down from the chair, grabs the chair and swings it at the Goat. There's a second of stunned silence after the echoing clang , before the Goat topples. Then Bullock rises, and says, grudgingly, "Thanks, Gordon."

Jamie nods. "No problem," she replies, and pulls out a pair of handcuffs, making her way over to the Goat.

Crouching behind the topiary rabbit with Selina, Ivy worries her lip. "Cat, are you sure about this?" she murmurs. "I mean, the dude's Bruce-freaking-Wayne—his bedroom's probably booby-trapped to the teeth." Hesitating, she adds, quietly, "I—I don't want you to get hurt."

Selina turns to hug her. "Hey, hey, I'll be fine," she promises. "I just wanna make sure the kid's doing alright, yeah?"

Ivy mumbles something unintelligible; but lets Selina go. With that, the other girl makes off, sticking to the shadows cast by the various shrubbery. When she gets to the manor proper, she flexes her fingers, before beginning the ascent up the side of the building to the first open window.

It lets her in to what appears to be some sort of study; and she freezes at the sight within: Bruce Wayne, asleep face down on the table, files spread out around him. Moving carefully, she takes a peek at the files—shrugging when they don't make any sense to her. Watching him sleep for a few moments, she concludes that he's probably fine, and makes her way out the same way she came in.

When she makes her way back to Ivy, she finds the other clutching the necklace Selina was wearing not long before. Catching the line of her gaze, Ivy blushes. "Sorry," she mumbles, "I just—I needed something to...remind me of you."

Selina shakes her head; smiling, and pulls her into another hug. "No, no, it's fine," she assures the other. "Actually, I'm impressed that you managed to snatch that off of me. Now c'mon, we need to get back, twilight's coming to an end."

They make their way towards the bus stop at a steady pace; Selina shifting from foot to foot as they wait for the bus to come. When it finally arrives, they climb on single file, Selina paying for their tickets, and settle into one of the sets of seats.

The necklace remains in Ivy's grip; her other hand in Selina's own.

The water laps at Osvalda's neck, a few rubber duckies floating atop the surface. Osvalda wears a cunning expression, deep in thought; and absentmindedly reaches out to grab one of the duckies; her fingers morphing into talons and pressing against the yellow plastic.

A moment later, Gertrud enters, towel in hand; and Osvalda schools her expression into a more innocent one; dropping the rubber duckie.

Gertrud tuts. "Oh! Those bruises!" she exclaims, kneeling down to reach out and run her fingers along the bruises on Osvalda's shoulders. "I tell you, you must not trust anyone in Gotham but your mother."

Osvalda shakes her head. "No, mom, I think I've found someone I can trust."

The other's interest piques. "Someone my daughter can trust?" she asks, curiously. Osvalda nods.

"A cop," she expands; half-hesitant; and watches her mother's reaction.

Gertrud's lips purse. "A cop?" she scoffs. "These police, they are liars, all of them."

Osvalda bites her lip; unable to refute the point. After all, Jamie had lied— for her. But , when the time had come, she had told the truth to Maroni, and saved Osvalda's life. And now Osvalda is in the middle of planning on taking over Gotham, made possible by Jamie's truths and lies. "It's...complicated," she settles on.

Her mother huffs; but doesn't press the point.

Darkness. It surrounds him, pressing in on him like a blanket. He tries to open his eyes, the effort seeing monumental. In the distance, he ccan hear someone talking.

"Thank you," the man says. "I promise I will not disappoint—allowing me to be a part of the experiment with Thomas, funding my research—" he pauses for a moment. When he speaks again, it's more furtive. "Doctor, have they...have they indicated any sort of...pleasure in how I've been conducting my own experiments? Or—or displeasure," he hurries to add. "I can change anything they want to, of course—"

Another man's voice stops him; higher than the first. "The Court is satisfied with your preformance." It has a finality to it. "Thomas is your reward—now that we know what is possible, we have no more use for him. You may do with him what you please."

A sigh of relief; quickly aborted. "Of course," the first man says. "Thank you."

The darkness reclaims him.

When he comes to awareness once more, it's in a room with a tall man. The man is towering over another boy, who's also strapped down like he himself is. He observes his surroundings, wondering at the purpose of it all—it looks like they're in some sort of empty laboratory.

The tall man is holding a...syringe? A moment later, he inserts it into the other boy's neck. The boy's trying to struggle to no avail, his eyes wide.

He watches it all with a sort of detachedness—at least, until the tall man steps back, and the screaming begins.

It's a heart-rending noise; high and terrified; like the scream of a rabbit; and he twitches; fists curling and uncurling. There's nothing on his mind except the knowledge that he has to make that sound stop, whatever it takes.

Straining against his restraints, he jerks, managing to break through one of the ones on his arm. The tall man starts; seemingly unbothered by the screaming but horrified by the fact that he's broken his bonds. "No, no, no!" he exclaims; rushing to his side. "Thomas, you must stay—"

Thomas ignores him; struggling even harder against the restraints; and he manages to rip a few more of them off, gaining leverage against the table to force the final ones off.

The tall man leaps forward. "No, no, no!" he chants; and the syringe is in his hand still, and he reaches towards Thomas—

Instinctively, Thomas reaches out, hands coming up to grasp the man's shoulders; and he shoves him away, hard. The tall man goes flying; hits the wall with a sickening crack and slides to the floor, motionless.

Trembling, Thomas rises from the table. The other boy is still screaming; but his voice has gone hoarse now; and he's still jerking against the restraints.

On impulse, Thomas releases the restraints; tugs the boy up and into an embrace. Mumbles, the words alien in his mouth and yet somehow making sense, "It's okay. I've got you."

The boy struggles against him for a long moment; an then goes limp, head falling against Thomas' shoulder, his voice quieting.

Thomas holds him until the terror he's facing abates. Then, carefully, he pulls away. "Are you okay?" he asks.

The boy looks at him with wide eyes. "No one's ever...gotten me through it before," he says, sounding slightly wonderstruck.

Thomas shrugs. "First times for everything," he says. "We should probably get out of here."

The other boy shudders. "Yeah," he says. "Let's." Then, hesitantly, "I'm Jonathan—well, Jon." He offers a small smile.

Thomas returns it. "I'm Thomas, apparently."

"Apparently," Jon mimics. "Well, Thomas, thanks for, uh. Seeing me through that." Then, catching sight of the tall man crumpled on the floor, his face twists. "What happened to Dad?"

"That was your father?" Thomas asks. "He seemed...not particularly caring of the fact that he was making you terrified."

Jon shrugs. "It was complicated," he says. "I...it's probably better that he's dead, honestly."

"Dark."

Jon huffs. "A bit, maybe. Come on, let's get going."

With that, they make their way to the doors, pushing them open and stepping out into the overcast outdoors. There's no other buildings around them, except a tiny white building in the distance. They exchange a glance, and then begin making their way towards it.

"It just doesn't make any sense, " Bullock protests. "There's no evidence that Earl and Milke have an connectin. How could they have been working together fourteen years ago?"

Jamie shrugs; taking a sip of her coffee. "I don't know," she says. "They have similar backgrounds, both a low level of education, a list of menial jobs, a bit of petty crime and some history of mental problems—but," she adds, "no violent crimes prior to becoming the Goat. Honestly, I'm just as confused as everyone else."

Bullock hums. "Y'know, it makes me wonder if Dix's theory is true," he speculates. "Maybe there is a conspiracy to, uh, to create the Goat in other people—or," he grimaces, "even worse, that there's a grain of truth to the old legend about the Spirit of the Goat possessing people."

Jamie shakes her head. "You sound awful sure of that," she says. "There's probably some logical explanation we're missing."

"Yeah, well, I'm going to go home and get some sleep," Bullock grunts. "You have fun watching Mr. Crazypants in there." He jerks his thumb towards the two-way mirror, and makes his way out, leaving Jamie alone.

Noise from the other side of the mirror jolts her from her thoughts. "No, no, no!" Earl moans; fists clenching and unclenching. In that instant, the memory of Mr. Hastings' hands clenching and unclenching during the visit to the Hastings house comes back to her.

Oh, she thinks. Oh, shit.

Quickly, she makes her way out of the rooms and down to the archives at a near sprint. When she enters, Ms. Kringle is putting some files away in one of the many drawers of the archives. "Ms. Kringle!" Jamie calls. "I was wondering if you could possibly help me? I need the records of Dr. Marks—first name, Henry."

Ms. Kringle hums. "Sure," she says, making her way over to another one of the drawers, and riffling through it. Pulling a file out, she asks, "What ever do you need it for? It's not most days that someone comes in asking for the file of a—" she checks the first page—"a psychiatrist."

Jamie offers a grim smile. "I have a hunch, Ms. Kringle," she says, taking the file, "and I'm afraid that it's right."

Reading through Henry Marks' file, Jamie drags a hand down the list of clinics the Doctor did community service at. Making her way to her desk, she pulls out the papers that Ed printed off for her. Comparing the papers, she notes that, in the last decade and a half, Marks has done community service at a few different free clinics—and two of his patients were Randall Milke and Raymond Earl.

Quickly making her way to the Hastings residence, she knocks on the door. A worried-looking Mrs. Hastings lets her in. Jamie makes her way into the living room to find Marks and Mr. Hastings sitting on opposite couches from each other. "GCPD!" she calls. "Dr. Marks, you're under arrest as a suspect in the murders of Shelly Lawson and Amanda Hastings, as well as the attempted murder of Ember Copley. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court—"

Marks smiles widely, cutting her off. "You're right of course, Detective Gordon," he acknowledges. "Save for one thing. I did this for a purpose, you know, a greater one—the study of the human mind is an intriguing, myterious field. And I am but a pioneer of new techniques, working for the betterment of human-kind, searching for the results that it will yield—and every step forward, every advancement for humanity requires a few sacrifices; with the death of the weak, the strong will prosper, you know, and all of the victims stood in the way of leading Gotham to a brighter future were but merely obstructive devices."

Jamie grimaces. "You're a sick man, Dr. Marks, brainwashing innocents to do your dirty work.

Marks laughs. "You give me too much credit, Detective," he says. "After all, hypnotherapy can't make someone do something they don't already want to do, as, deep down, of their deepest wishes it's reflective—all I did was bring it out in Milkie and Earl; and they were both necessary pieces in a larger game of chess, one more far important than you or I or that Selina girl. Did you know you know, Detective, that owls have a superb sense of hearing? So do Gotham's owls, for they see you when you're sleeping—"

"I didn't ask for a fucking sermon, Marks, so shut it!" Jamie snaps. "You're coming with me—"

"Well, if you must," Marks sighs; rolling his eyes. "Mr. Hastings, this case is a bust."

Stiffening, Mr. Hastings lunges up from here he's sitting towards her. Jamie dodges, and the momentum carries him to the window, the glass cracking and giving way beneath his weight. He doesn't even yell as he falls.

To busy looking after Hastings, Jamie doesn't notice when Marks leaps at her; knocking her to the ground. He rises and makes his way towards the door, but Jamie manages to draw her gun and clip him on the leg, making him fall to the ground.

As she makes her way towards, him, she suddenly realises why he had seemed so familiar the day that she had first met him—Dr. Marks is, in fact, Jervis Tetch.

Cuffing him, she drags him up off the ground and escorts him to the squad car. When she gets to the precinct, she makes her way to Essen's office. Bullock, apparently not having returned to the precinct, follows after her, curiosity easily readable on his face.

When she enters, Essen frowns at her. "Gordon?" she asks. "Who's this?"

"Doctor Marks," she says, grimly. "Or, at least, that's the alias he was going by. His real name is Jervis Tetch, and he brainwashed Randall Milke and Raymond Earl to turn them into the Spirit of the Goat—"

Someone bangs on the door; and a moment later, Montoya and Alan appear. "Jamie Gordon," Montoya intones, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and cuffing Jamie's hands behind her back, "you're under arrest for the murder of Osvalda Cobblepot—"

Sharply, Essen interrupts. "Detective Montoya! What is this? The Major Crimes Unit doesn't have the authority to arrest my officers!"

"And she didn't kill Cobblepot!" Bullock protests.

Montoya smiles sharply. "I have an eyewitness statement," she says, calmly. "So, Captain, I think you'll find I do have the authority."

Jamie ignores the hullabaloo, trying to catch sight of Tetch. "Shit," she says. "Hey, uh, Tetch's—"

Her words are cut off as, over Bullock's shoulder she catches sight of Osvalda. Catching sight of her expression, Bullock, Montoya, and Alan turn—the latter two gawking at the sight, while Bullock pales. Smiling broadly, Osvalda says, "Hello, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Osvalda Cobblepot. I think you'll find that I am quite alive."

After a beat, Bullock's expression twists into a snarl. "Falcone's going to kill me," he hisses, and lunges at Jamie; forcing Montoya and Alan to restrain him.