TW: Mentions of violence and blood, a couple of swears, all around just Gotham tings

The Spider Web

'The ones who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones that do.'
Steve Jobs

Tuesday, January 18th, 2016
Evangeline Winter's Apartment, Gotham City

'For the last time, no.'

The private investigator grinned as she faced the empty bulletin board taking up a wall in her home office. Several folders and documents lay on the desk beneath it. She could do this on the computer but preferred the larger visual canvas. Easier to see the picture in full.

Eve huffed and slumped, a momentary lapse before she straightened herself again with renewed vigour. 'Jim, you are fully aware that I wouldn't partake in such dangerous endeavours that quite obviously fall under the jurisdiction of the police force and even the Batman himself. But I was there Jim. I practically heard everything. Haven't I proven myself these past three months? You said so yourself, you've never had anyone close cases as quickly as I—'

'Those have been low profile cases Miss Winter,' Jim Gordon tiredly persisted. 'Affairs, petty thefts, arrogant kids trying to make a name for themselves—this is the mob we're talking about, Eve, and not just out of line henchmen. We're talking the heads of the biggest crime families in Gotham about to break into an all-out war. Batman himself is going to have his hands full with trying to lessen the damage, on top of catching Arkham's current loose residents. I mean this in the nicest way possible Miss Winter, but this is out of your jurisdiction and ballpark.'

Gathering evidence on small-time criminals like convenience store robbers and car thieves was most certainly a step-up from cheating spouses and dog nappers, and that had taken a whole month of convincing (pestering) Commissioner Gordon when she first arrived in the city. In the end, it was the GCPD's glaring lack of detectives—as well as a sparkling recommendation from Metropolis' own police commissioner—that resulted in Jim allowing her on as a consultant.

Resultantly, she thought it would've taken far longer to convince the greying commissioner to even budge on this.

'You said it yourself, he's got his hands full with The Rogue's Gallery as it is. If I can take the mafia off his plate, then I will.' Eve noticed Gordon's mouth part to interject, but she didn't allow him the chance, wincing at her lack of manners. 'I'm not going to lie Gordon; I'm genuinely terrified here. Everyone in Metropolis warned me about this place. The criminals are an entirely different breed here. I acknowledge the fact that I am likely out of my depth. Don't take this as me being some starry-eyed detective hoping for my big shot—this is not that.'

The southerner leant forward, almost unblinking. 'This is something more… primal than that. That alleyway… that much blood, that much death—I know that if I don't do everything within my power as someone who was there to witness that to stop that, then I'm going to see that again and again in the news in the weeks to come. And so many of those bodies will be innocents, I know it. I can't nor won't do this without your permission, but please consider it before blatantly shooting the idea down.'

Eve isn't sure what she said in particular that managed to convince him, but she saw the shift. She watched his gaze glaze over in thought, weighing something—memories, consequences, possibilities, she wasn't sure. Not until he opened his mouth again.

Jim rubbed his eyes under his glasses. His crow's feet deepened with his definitive decision. 'Well, I suppose I gave the Batman his shot all those years ago… hm, fine—but,' he raised a hand, successfully cutting off whatever victorious sound was about to slip past Eve's lips. 'As soon as you start to get in too deep, I'm pulling you out. And, should you close the case and miraculously find enough evidence to indict a guilty party and stop this mob war from happening, you will not personally take action against them. If you have a plan, great. But remember that we're the police force, and you are only a private detective.'

Her hair was just barely long enough to tie up, sat above her clavicle, but the investigator pulled it all back anyway and retrieved her phone from the back pocket of her dress pants. Resting it by the files, Eve eyed the six bulkiest ones and the names attached.

Falcone. Maroni. Markovic. O'Reilly. Two-Face. Sionis.

The North Carolinian had spent quite a few nights digging through and printing off any old online news articles even remotely linked to the six names that lay in front of her, on top of the limited (and partially blacked out for classified reasons) files Jim was able to lend her. Yet it was at that moment, staring straight at them laid out side-by-side, that the names brought on a fleeting, reality-grounding moment of clarity. Holy mother of God I'm really doing this.

Eve nearly felt the silver cross around her neck burn her for the blasphemy. Whether it was from the power of God or her mother she wasn't sure, but for once there were forces at play that scared her more than either of them.

And then, came her reminder. Flashes of blood, smeared lipstick, an ice blue eye, the smell of gunpowder, and the ever-ringing American-Italian drawl of 'A mob war'. There had already been nine shoot-outs in eight days. Over thirty injured and twelve dead, all mafia men. It was horrid enough that it was happening at all—but soon it will bleed out into the populace. Civilians will get caught.

With a shaky breath, she let the reality-grounding moment and the fear that it brought pass over her. I'm really doing this.

Evangeline Winter shucked off her favourite white coat, rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, and pressed play on her phone, allowing her interview with Jim Gordon to fill the quiet room.

'You don't need to worry about some of the organised crime—groups like the Triad, the Yakuza and the Cartels likely won't stick their foot in this, and any gangs involved will only be hired for muscle, they won't have a stake in the investigations you'll be pursuing.'

A few smaller piles of documents, notes, records, articles and other miscellaneous files sat off to the side, her self-titled 'Other' pile. Names like 'The Hammer' and 'The Odessa Mob'—Russian and Ukrainian respectively, likely allies for Markovic—and long-since fallen crime families like 'Cosa Nostra' and 'Sabatino' were there as a precaution, but so far didn't seem like relevant players.

'In terms of alliances, O'Reilly and Markovic are obviously teaming up against Maroni, but that still leaves Falcone and maybe Two-Face and Sionis.'

'Two-Face and Sionis?' Eve's recorded voice echoed back as she finished pinning up the first four families, keeping a distance between them. She tied a green thread between O'Reilly and Markovic, signifying their business alliance.

'Sionis used to be a big name, but after the Joker knocked him off his throne one Christmas Eve twelve years ago, he's come back and built his empire in his impulsive, ruthless image several times over. Every time he's knocked down, he comes back—more reckless, unhinged. He eventually started ignoring the established courtesies between the families and has a habit of breaking their unspoken rules. He's not well-liked, but he's a wild card. If one family is desperate enough, they might use him.'

The image Eve pinned of Roman Sionis stilled her hand for a moment. It wasn't the mask that unsettled her, but rather the bottomless brown eyes that stared back at her. She felt as though she was staring long into Nietzsche's abyss. She refused to blink.

'Harvey put away a lot of the family members and men of each family, but he knows how to run numbers—he did a bit of business and finance on the side of his law degree. Resultantly, Two-Face has not only made himself a lot of money—sometimes even legally—but the other families too. Not to mention they seem to enjoy his more… crude yet entertaining behaviour, as opposed to Harvey's previously righteous disposition. Unlike Sionis he respects the unspoken rules in place. One side will likely try to vie for his favour.'

On a post-it note, Eve scrawled 'Poke around Two-Face businesses; fifty-fifty proclivity could mean his men have information on both sides.'

As she stuck it by his list of known and suspected businesses, the southerner's gaze flickered to his photo. She could see the cleverness of the man in each eye, and yet it really did feel as if she was staring into two completely different eyes. How deep did his—their—dissociative identity disorder go?

The investigator tied a white thread from Two-Face to Falcone and O'Reilly, signifying the uncertain yet amicable relationships, and picked up the red thread of hostility for Maroni, and the yellow thread of friendship for Markovic.

'Maroni was the one to disfigure Dent with acid in court, and I can safely say they haven't properly come to amends since. Harvey did, however, go to law school with Alexandra Markovic's older brother, believe it or not. He's always gotten on with that family the best.'

Eve's nose twitched, eyeing her freshly pinned post-it note. He still lets the coin decide, my fifty-fifty estimation still stands, she eventually decided and left it as it is.

'Tell me about Markovic.'

Fingers deftly threaded the line of red between Markovic and Maroni.

'Dimitri Markovic—those on the street call him 'Mad Dog'. Ruslan Markovic married into the Giovanni crime family some eighty years ago and staged a coup whilst Nicholas Giovanni was on his death bed. When Dmitri Markovic came into power a couple of decades ago, he also overtook the Dimitrov crime family, his only other big Russian rivals. The Markovics, when counting their own as well as the gangs they employ, have almost every other family beat in numbers, only topped by Falcone.'

There was a rather unnerving mugshot pinned under his name; Dimitri clearly having been brought into the precinct at least once. Blood was smeared over his mouth, stuck between his teeth. Yet his eyes were those of a storm; the calm centre surrounded by raw chaos.

'Why the blood?'

'He bit an officer's ear off, and then proceeded to tear a chunk out of her throat.'

She pinned a few articles, notes and files outlining the M.O. of some of the Markovic family crimes of violence. It would be wise to look for similar M.O.'s in articles I may have missed—perhaps one may illuminate a motive for Don Maroni's alleged conspiring against them? A post-it note joined the articles, detailing as such.

Toying with the red thread again, she tied it off between Maroni and O'Reilly, and a green thread between O'Reilly and Falcone.

'Colin O'Reilly's father, Kenneth, took over what was left of the Sullivan crime family after many of them were killed by the Holiday killer. They started as a subset of the Falcone family, mainly known for their skills as assassins, but after Kenneth took over he exhibited a shrewdness and political acumen that convinced Falcone to allow them their own space and name. They are still strongly allied with Falcone.'

'Then won't Falcone side with them?'

'Well—here's where it gets unnecessarily complicated.'

The green thread and the white thread sat in each hand. Eve eventually settled on the green thread, tying it between Falcone and Maroni.

'The Falcones and the Maronis are two of the oldest families in Gotham. Their ancestral roots go back to when Gotham was first erected. Carmine Falcone is one of the most influential and prosperous criminals in the city. The other families do anything in their power to avoid offending Falcone in any way, because there isn't another family—or rogue, for that matter—in this city who can rival him in political, media and legal ties. He was bitter rivals with Luigi Maroni—Salvatore Maroni's father—but unfortunately gets along with Salvatore quite well, even at his current age of sixty-nine. Sal never got along with his old man, and even though it's not proven, sources say he killed Luigi before the cancer took to him.'

Eve reminisced over the event from a week ago. Both sides seemed so sure what they were speaking was nothing but the truth, and both sides seemed equally unhinged. Perhaps whoever fed Alexandra and Sean the information about Maroni fabricated the intelligence because they had a personal vendetta against the Maronis? She had too many theories and not enough evidence to narrow them down.

Her left hand's middle finger and thumb tapped against each other in thought, as if periodically pinching the air. In her distracted state, she missed a few tidbits of information Jim relayed about his experience with the families but resigned herself to the fact that she'd not only heard it before but would likely replay the recording several times over before the day was done. She'd catch up on it then.

It was her own voice that brought her back to attention.

'What about Sionis and Two-Face? What is their relationship like with one another?'

The PI didn't even hesitate to reach for the red thread.

'No two human beings hate each other more than they do. I've had them in lock-up at the same time before, and quite quickly learned to never keep them near each other again. There's no particular inciting incident that we know of, but it likely traces back to Dent helping dismantle the leftovers of Sionis' empire after Joker knocked it down twelve years ago. It was one of the last few acts he did as DA. They'll likely use this war as an excuse to hit back at each other with everything they've got.'

Hours must've been spent pinning things like case comments made by detectives, articles on crimes going back as far as two decades ago, notes on known business dealings, notes on ideas and leads for her to chase, and everything in between. A rainbow of threads streaked across the board, the most convoluted web of ties the PI had ever seen. She had started at ten in the morning, and by then it was five in the evening.

Jim's voice repeated link a mantra in her head, the recording replaying and replaying and replaying. News reports ran on her computer and TV in the background. Post-it notes of her own were stuck haphazardly around the room and board.

Evangeline Winter stood in the centre of the madness. Thoughts, hypothesises, deductions, revelations all fired off in her head, her middle finger and thumb tap tap tapping against one another.

Such a big web. So many spiders, so many flies.

Zeroing in on Don Maroni, the detective's nose twitched.

One side was lying.

She glanced at the crossed-out faces of Seán O'Reilly and Alexandra Markovic.

One side was dead.

Sharp eyes cut back to Don Maroni.

What if Maroni was cleaning house? Don Corleone style? Or perhaps Seán and Alexandra were trying to make a name for themselves out of the shadows of their fathers?

None of it sat perfectly right, not yet, and it didn't take long for a yawn to muscle its way past Eve's lips.

If I'm going to last the night, I'm going to need coffee. And tea. She paused. And a phone call.

'You called.'

Jim didn't jolt as much as he used to, but that didn't mean he was no longer surprised by the Dark Knight's abrupt materialisation. Every damn time, Jim huffed, pushing off from the overlooking railing on the GCPD building's rooftop. He dragged his feet back towards the notorious 'Bat Signal', taking his time turning it off as he drowsily responded 'Remember that woman I mentioned some months back? The one who's been helping me with a few low-key cases?'

'Evangeline Winter?' The Dark Knight prompted, the gentle name jarring to hear when delivered by the vigilante's gravel tone.

Somehow, the vigilante was not surprised this was about her. Gordon was reluctant in disclosing her identity when Batman asked who had been improving the efficiency in his less life-threatening cases a month or so ago. Jim had remained loyal, unwilling to disclose her identity, but had to have known Batman would decipher it regardless.

However, he only began to show more interest in her once the criminals and media started getting suspicious of how the GCPD is actually doing its job. The percentage of case closing efficiency had increased from 32 per cent to 45 per cent, a statistic made public by The Gotham Times. Still wasn't ideal, but for three months that was drastic enough to turn a few heads.

She's innocuous; a small-time PI from the South with a pacifist track record—one of the last people the criminals of Gotham would expect to dismantle their plans, Batman surmised. It makes her dangerous, more than they—and probably she—realises.

Jim nodded in answer to his question, blowing warm air and a puff of cold into his frigid fingers. He didn't even seem surprised that the Dark Knight knew of her identity, despite his lack of disclosure. It was a given by this stage. 'She was there at Markovic and O'Reilly kids shoot out against Maroni last week. It's her I managed to get the story from, but now she won't let it go. She's hell-bent on solving the entire damn thing. Stubborn like you are.'

'What do you want me to do? Convince her not to take the case?' The vigilante remained perfectly still—unsettlingly and eerily so. Not even his cape kicked up in the wind.

'No, there's no way of deterring her from it. I was hoping you would just keep an eye on her. I know how busy you get but she's still new to Gotham, and trying to tackle the city's most powerful and dangerous families may prove to be a bit much, even for her.'

'It's not wise allowing her to continue Jim,' Batman warned, his voice impossibly dropping several octaves lower. It was the kind of voice you didn't want to say no to. 'They see her as harmless now, but the Gotham mobs will chew her up and spit her out in a matter of a week if they start to suspect her. She's not Gotham material.'

'Exactly, she's not Gotham material,' Jim agreed, but oddly veered in a different direction than the Dark Knight was expecting. 'Which is why I think she should give the case a shot. Everyone in this city thinks and operates on the same level, especially the criminals. We're all messed up and jaded by what this city has done to us. But she's got an entirely different mindset from all of them, and us.'

Jim paused, his moustache twitching up with his lips. Flashes of the last three months of interactions darted through his head.

The investigator stood at the holding cell, holding pleasant enough conversations with the drunkards, sleazy politicians, and gang members within. The Street Demonz bikers were more than eager to share their tattoos upon her intrigue.

She sat with an arson suspect at Detective Hobbs' table, handing over a cup of coffee. Not one hour later she was mitigating the tension in their conversation in the interrogation room.

There was her smile, as warm as the sun but as beguiling as the moon, threatening to break out into a laugh when she set, cleaned and patched up Officer Hargrave's nose, the older man regaling a joke. She did the same for the busted hand of the Dockyard Dogs gang member who had broken it, the much larger criminal sharing her smile when she promised to bring in her fan-favourite caramel slice the next day.

Jim allowed his mouth to curl into a proper smile. 'I thought her optimism and gentle nature would be to her detriment, but I mistook kindness for naïveté. She's gentle, not soft—soft is easy to mould, delicate, but gentle is the person who is capable of strength and power yet exerts restraint in favour of humility and compassion. I've witnessed what she can do, her mind is unlike any I've ever seen, but instead of getting into big corporate jobs, law, some bigshot government agency, or even becoming a superhero or villain, she purposefully grounds herself in the lives of everyday people. She helps in even the smallest of ways. She understands people because she embeds herself in their lives in a way I don't think we're quite capable of. I honestly think she can do it.'

The silence that fell was as thick and heavy as the blanket of night. The Batman took a long look at the Police Commissioner; a man who he knew to have one of the most grounded and level-headed judgements in this city. The Dark Knight knew that Jim could count the number of people he trusts on one hand, and it seemed that Miss Winter managed to work her way to being one of those fingers. Jim was one of the only people Batman truly trusted, someone he perhaps would have even called a friend. Perhaps.

The Dark Knight's shoulders straightened a couple of centimetres; almost imperceptibly. 'I'll check in on her, see how she's coming along.'

Jim's moustache stretched with the grin, and it's almost as if some colour returned to his hair upon the words. He shook his head and cast his gaze to the floor, only to glance back up with a 'Thanks' and find himself alone on the rooftop, his only company the soft howl of the wind and the bat signal next to him.

Yep, Jim grumbled to himself, but not grumpily. Every damn time.

It was eleven-forty-five at night, and Evangeline Winter was this close to pulling her own hair out.

'It is as if George R. R. Martin wrote the blueprints for the criminal empire of this city. How does one city have so many families with so many henchmen, allies, enemies, histories and unnecessarily convoluted relationships? Bec, I'm calling it. You may need to sojourn earlier than we suspected. I think I require a psychiatric analysis.'

A muffled scoff sounded came from the PI's phone, on speaker and half-hidden under Oswald Cobblepot's partially redacted police file. 'I don't need to drive to Gotham to tell you you're crazy, we already made that collective deduction while you were in Metropolis. Just go ahead and admit yourself into Arkham while you're there.'

'That's a temptation and you know it,' Eve admonished, mind abuzz with the potential encounters. A sliver of her repressed southern accent surfaced. 'So many colourful characters. If I could avoid the likely impending death and or abuse, you know I would. Hm, perhaps I shall simply drive back to Greenville where you may personally admit me to a mental hospital.'

'What, and commit social suicide while I'm at? No mental hospital in town would let me admit Greenville's darling little angel, and then I'd have to explain that to your mother. Your mother. Eve, babe, I don't know if you know, but even Dementors are fucking terrified of that woman. She has no soul for them to suck. She would suck their souls, drown them in holy water, impale them on a crucifix for the world to see, and fix and hand out those dirty old rags that cover them to the poor and homeless with a fucking smile on her face the entire time.'

The investigator's laugh bubbled and flooded the room, her high school companion cracking a few moments later and joining her.

Rebecca Daniels was a shot of tequila—strong, sharp, and most would describe a conversation with her in her off-hours as a punch to the gut. As a fully registered and practising psychiatrist, the Aussie-born American was fairly jaded from her career. Twelve years of studying and residency and four years of practice had taught her what one hour in customer service or retail would have: people sucked. They just sucked in many different ways for many different reasons.

Despite the blunt and brash nature of Dr Daniels, and despite the fact she had conclusively decided that yes, human beings were the worst, she still remained rooted in her life goal of making things better for them. People sucked, but they deserved a chance to become better. Growing up with a sharp emotional intelligence, and a best friend as hopeful and optimistic as Eve, it was a no-brainer that she should pursue psychiatry.

She was, however, an acquired taste when she wasn't in work mode. Eve loved it about her, actually—the candour and colour were refreshing; it had always drawn the detective to her.

'My mother is… many things, Bec, but I'm not entirely sure scary is one of them.'

Eve didn't even realise she was smoothing out all the creases in her pantsuit until a few moments after she finished speaking. She retracted her hand as if scalded and knew the words to be the little white lie that they were.

'Angie, your mother has successfully put the fear of God into an atheist. Scary is most certainly one of them.'

The investigator ran her hands down her face, an attempt to wipe away the fatigue as well as her growing, wearied smile. 'Mm, can't argue there.' The words were groggy, dragged.

A pause filled the space between them. The PI pictured Bec squinting at her phone as if it were a lens to scrutinise her through. 'Sounds like it's right about tea and bedtime there Angie. No more coffee.'

With a huff, Eve acquiesced, recognising that not much else was likely to get done tonight.

She set the water to boil whilst she changed into her button-up fleece pyjamas, the matching long sleeve and tracksuit patterned with bees and sunflowers. Finishing up her conversation with Rebecca, the detective returned to her office with her cup of tea in hand and stared at the chaotic investigation wall. The scent of camomile, orange blossom and honey tickled her nose as she blew on the tea.

Perhaps I'm looking at this too logically, Eve considered. Hazel eyes darted to the files of redacted GCPD health records of Don Maroni and the latest copy of The Gotham Globe that discussed Arkham Asylum's recent break-out.

What if, in true Gotham spirit, there was something a little less logical and a little more mad that drove either side to this?

For her last act of the night, Evangeline Winter jotted down the idea on a post-it note and stuck it by Salvatore Maroni's head, right above the article detailing his father's death. She repeated it for Markovic and repressed a shudder as she eyed the crimson-stained teeth in his mugshot. However, she withheld from doing the same to O'Reilly, whose photo and history appeared to be without cracks in sanity and composure. Supposedly.

Satisfied, Eve turned in for the night. Her dreams were of smeared lipstick, an ice blue eye, the smell of gunpowder, and the never-ending drawl of 'A mob war'.

When she woke up, she tasted blood on her tongue.

Thanks for reading and that's all for now, bye! :) xxx

T.L