"Kill you?" Rachel slowly clarified. "So you're speaking that he told you to keep silent?"
"He never told me anything of that sort," Winnifred coldly answered, her fear melting and evaporating from the heat of her anger.
"Then, implied?" Gordon forced. Winnifred hesitated. Did he? Perhaps he did, but honestly, she doubted if he would be able to kill her.
"Yes, he did. Missus Haggard, may you get me a tissue please?"
Her matron hurriedly shuffled into the kitchen. Gordon slowly walked over to her, lowering his gun. Winnifred carefully slid farther into the corner.
"What can you tell us?" Gordon asked, his features softening. Winnifred's blue eyes flickered up and down his figure.
"Can we go to the kitchen?" She quietly inquired. Mrs. Haggard shuffled back into the room, a bunch of napkins in her splintered hands. Winnifred hesitantly reached for them, but Gordon didn't do any aggressive moves.
"Thank you," Winnifred whispered, pressing the napkins to her mouth and nose. The tissues blissfully soaked in the blood. Gordon silently stepped away from her, quietly asking where the kitchen is. Rachel left along with the Lieutenant. The cops stayed in an awkward silence with Winnifred. The young woman quickly wiped her face and made her way among them. Missus Haggard was already preparing the tea. Rachel crossed her legs at the table, neatly polished nails drumming the surface. Gordon folded his hands behind his back, looking out the window. When Winnifred entered, he turned around.
"Well?"
Winnifred bit her lips, glancing at her matron. The old woman caught the hint and quickly left. Winnifred sat down across Rachel, fingers nervously clutching the tablecloth.
"It would be easier if you asked questions," Winnifred quietly noticed.
"Alright," Rachel flatly agreed. "Can you tell us who is the murderer?"
"No."
"Is it the man who killed Jack Browning and Judge Mitchell?"
Winnifred hid her hands on her lap, afraid that they'll give her away.
"No."
"Are you lying?" Rachel suspiciously narrowed her eyes. Winnifred was silent, clutching her skirt with her numb fingers.
"What happened?" Gordon intervened. Winnifred's eyes darted on him.
"He….he killed us one by one. First was Mark. He was wounded in the head when he was getting the water for our kettle. Then was Riley. He—Do I really have to tell everything?"
Rachel and Gordon shared a lost glance. Winnifred bit her lips, restlessly cracking her fingers.
"Fine, fine, I know you won't believe me otherwise. Well, after Riley was smashed by a boulder, Sammy's stomach was sliced opened, followed by Charlotte who was shot, then Jacob was stabbed in the throat, and Billy in the chest. Satisfied?" Winnifred spat, familiar tears stinging her eyes. She defiantly stared at them.
"Did the murderer talk to you?" Gordon finally said after a short silence. Before Winnifred could answer, a young cop stormed into the kitchen.
"Lieutenant, John Gefoltert was found dead on the crossroad between Second and Montague Streets."
"Damn it," Gordon swore and rushed out of the kitchen. Dawes quickly followed him, shooting a concerned glance at Winnifred. The young woman hurriedly stood up, watching how the horde of police officers leave her apartment in a second. Winnifred sighed and walked out into the living room. One young cop was still there.
"Why are you here?" Winnifred suspiciously asked, picking up a book from the chair and placing it on the bookshelf.
"Lieutenant ordered me to stay here until he comes back," the young man calmly answered.
"Oh joy," Winnifred heavily sighed and switched on the television. She was essentially home arrested. The world gets crazier everyday. The national broadcast was concerning Gefoltert. Winnifred snuggled into the couch, clutching a pillow to her chest. Gefoltert, Gefoltert….wasn't that the head of the Wayne Records Department? The newscaster rambled about something concerning the injuries. The screen flashed on photos of the murdered. The young cop sat down next to her.
"Interesting," he smirked. He turned his head towards Winnifred. "Don't you think that the wounds look like a side picture of a squirrel?"
"Yes, I do," Winnifred tensely agreed. "What's your name?"
"Excuse me?"
"I asked what's your name?"
"Bailey. Arthur Bailey."
"Nice to meet you, Mister Bailey." Winnifred stood up and walked over to the kitchen. Her numb fingers automatically grabbed the teapot's handle. The pot was so heavy. Winnifred silently poured it not even a quarter of the cup and lowered down the pot. She couldn't hold it anymore, she was afraid she was going to break it, the teapot was too heavy. Winnifred opened the cupboard and took out the tea. She fully watched how the little tea bits spread out and dissolve in the water. Tears of helplessness and anger rolled down her face, but Winnifred quickly wiped them away. The tea was warm.
"Did you hear the TV broadcast?" The young, blonde intern asked Johnathan. The doctor did even look at her, more focused on the composition inside his flask.
"No, since I was sure you're going to tell it to me anyway," he answered in irritation, slightly shaking the flask and writing something in his blueprints. The blondie pressed her lips in irritation.
"Well, Gefoltert was found dead today on the intersection between Second and Montague streets."
"How interesting," Johnathan sarcastically replied, not looking up from his work.
"What kind of truck would one need to knock out that beefsteak?"
"He wasn't hit, Doctor," The blondie twisted her lips in annoyance. "He was sliced all over the stomach."
"What an effective way to lose weight."
"Doctor Crane, his wounds were formed in the shape of a squirrel."
Johnathan turned in his chair.
"Really?" He incredulously inquired, his features slowly becoming serious.
"Yes," the intern girl triumphantly confirmed. "Quite a good squirrel, actually."
"I'm going to be right back," Johnathan suddenly said, standing up and grabbing his coat.
"If Rita becomes too aggressive, place her in a straitjacket. You're going to interrogate Vesker in place of Jeremy, alright?"
"Yes, doctor."
Johnathan nodded and walked out of his office. He quickly walked down the stairs and practically ran outside. It was snowing. Johnathan glanced on the street and the traffic and, deciding not to risk being slowed down by the traffic, quickly started down the boulevard. The streets were crowded with people; it was a Monday after all. Johnathan maneuvered among the people, coat flapping at his sides, and abruptly turned into a dark, smoke ridden alley. Crooked shacks and rusty stairways leading to daunting metal doors crouched at him. Johnathan ignored the amused and suspicious looks the bums gave him and ran up the steps of one of the homes. He loudly knocked on the metal door. After a few seconds, the door opened.
"Scarecrow?" Lena raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Don't you have work today?"
"Let me in," Johnathan harshly responded and entered the room without asking an invitation. He didn't waste his time on looking around; the doctor slammed the door behind him, sharply grabbed Lena by the wrist, and pressed her against her kitchen table top.
"Fucking hell, Crane," Lena seethed, trying to writhe her hand out of Johnathan's tight grasp.
"Let me go or else!"
"Else what?" Johnathan lashed, pressing her harder onto the table top. "You'll poison me with cigarettes? I don't smoke Marlboro, miss."
"What do you want, asshole?" Lena bared her teeth.
"Where does Heath live?" Johnathan quietly said, his fingers tightening around Lena's wrist.
"Who?"
Johnathan furiously twisted her hand. Lena hissed in pain, eyes rolling up into her eye lids.
"Don't try to play with me, bitch. Where's Heath?"
"I don't know who the hell Heath is," Lena heavily breathed, eyes stabbing Johnathan.
"If you're talking about that psychic sadist who killed Geffy, that's the Joker."
Johnathan silently observed Lena, biting her bloodied lips to keep herself from screaming.
"Where does the Joker live then?" He finally asked. The green eyes darted on his face.
"Those garages at Elm Street. He lives in the one across the pink graffitied wall."
Johnathan released his grasp and Lena toppled on the kitchen top, catching her breath. When the bounty huntress looked up again, Crane was already gone.
"I not do understandses why young misses is goings here," Mrs. Haggard, shoving the cabbage into a plastic bag, hissed into Winnifred's ear.
"That cops still not lets you go."
"It's okay," Winnifred quietly responded, shooing a sideways glance at Arthur, standing a few feet away from them. She convinced him that she absolutely needed to go to the bazaar with Mrs. Haggard, and now, the three of them made a strange company.
"I don't understands what you hopes for," Missus Haggard repeated, disapproving glancing at the cop. Winnifred didn't understand herself. The bazaar was packed with people, yet the cop has proved himself to be extremely experienced in these types of situations; no matter how fast Winnifred maneuvered or pushed, he still managed to be close to her. Winnifred sighed and walked over to the next stall. They were selling nuts there. Winnifred noticed acorns and immediately sick. Heath's best carving was a squirrel. What was he trying to prove now? Winnifred tiredly looked to the side. The tiredness disappeared in a second.
"Missus Haggard," Winnifred quietly leaned down to her matron. "Can you distract the cop?"
The old woman indignantly stared at her.
"Now what are you up to, missis? Do you want to get yourself in j—"
"Now, Missus Haggard!"
Missus Haggard sighed and staggered next to the cop. Suddenly, all of her purses fell next to Arthur, cabbages rolling out onto his feet. Being the gentlemen as he is, Bailey obediently kneeled down and helped the old woman get her belongings back together. When he looked up again, Winnifred already disappeared in the crowd.
The snow blocked her vision and ability to walk. Winnifred impatiently swatted her scarf out of her face, trying to keep Johnathan in her view. Judging by his fast pace, he was driven by the same motives as she was. Johnathan suddenly stopped, and Winnifred quickly hid behind a wall. She patiently waited, knees trembling, until he resumed his walk. Winnifred quietly continued, trying to step in his pace. They entered a narrow alley. Winnifred immediately recognized it. It was the "garage junkyard", called so for the endless amount of garages stretching for miles and miles. Winnifred avoided this place due to the dark reputation it had. Johnathan stopped again. Winnifred abruptly braked, trying not to breathe. Johnathan looked on the wall. Winnifred shifted her gaze there also. It was graffitied in pink. AWESOME BOI or something. Johnathan walked into the garage right across it. Winnifred was left alone on the street. She quietly shuffled next to the garage's wall, pressing her back against it, her eyes inevitably traveling to the graffiti. Her fingers were sweating inside the mittens, yet her ankles were knocking against each other from the cold.
Johnathan silently stood in the doorway. He didn't try to remember the interior of the room. He didn't remember it later. What he remembered was Heath, standing in front of a table, back to Johnathan. Multiple stacks of the card boxes were on the table. The man was taking out a deck out of the box, taking the last card, which was the joker, and letting the box along with the rest of the cards shower to the floor.
"Freddie," Heath rasped, automatically dropping the joker on the table and reaching for the next box.
"My dear, lovely Freddie. Let me go. I'd rather be a man in a mask than a man who masks and unmasks every other time. I am not a monster. You may think I am a monster, but I'm not. Why should you care more about an old, useless, corrupt mafiosi?" Heath swallowed and looked down. His pale fingers grasped the joker card with intense force, his entire body shaking. Johnathan closed his eyes. Heath finally lost it. He lost his moral compass, even though he desperately tried to find it. He opened his eyes again, their gaze falling on a gun lying on a broken crate. Johnathan noiselessly took it and aimed right at Heath. His hand wasn't shaking, and his fingers felt cold against the trigger. Johnathan silently stared at the man in front of him. He felt something break inside him. He didn't recognize the man. So he pulled the trigger.
Heath didn't turn around at the sound of the misfire. Johnathan stared at the empty gun, before looking back at the man. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun onto the crate and turned around, walking out of the garage. Johnathan didn't feel the cold, nor did he see the woman huddling next to the wall. That was the moment when he could kill Heath without hesitation. Afterwards, it was useless. No matter how much he would've tried, he wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger. Johnathan abruptly turned the corner and almost ran into a telephone stand. For a moment, he just dumbly stared at it, guilt twisting his insides. Heath is dead. Heath is dead. He harshly jerked the phone and feverishly dialed the number. The dial tone droned in his head, too loud. Suddenly, it was cut by a rough voice with an Chicago-Italian accident.
"Yes?"
"Falcone? This is Crane. I'll work with you."
Winnifred followed Johnathan with her eyes, wide with horror. When he walked out of the garage, his face seemed empty of any emotions and at that frightening moment, no different than the thousand faces of the inhabitants of Gotham city. Winnifred slowly turned her head towards the entrance. Her nerves were sucking on her intestines, twisting in a an agitated knot. Winnifred slowly shifted towards the doorway, wincing at the loudness of the snow squeaking under her feet. She sucked in the air and abruptly walked in.
The room was dim. There was a ragged bookcase on the left and boxes on the right. Winnifred's eyes lingered on the numerous weapons huddled in those boxes. It would've looked like an ordinary garage if not of the chair with crimson seat and legs, dead cat on the floor, and blood stains all around. And a man standing back to her, cards splattered all over his feet.
"Heath."
Heath's eyes darted upwards on the mirror. Slowly, he turned around, straightening as he did it. Winnifred pressed her nails into her palms. Streaks of white paint covered his face, the dark circles emerging through the black paint, the red paint unable to hide away the wounded flesh. Heath slowly walked towards her, before suddenly stopping midway and grabbing a ragged cloth from one of the boxes. He quickly dampened it with water in the kitchen sink and hurriedly approached Winnifred. Then, he slowly began rubbing the moist cloth over her face.
"What are you doing, Heath?" Winnifred quietly asked, not sure whether to be frightened or to smile. The rugged cloth scratched at her cheeks.
"Wiping the paint off your face," Heath seriously replied, continuing rubbing. After a few moments, he lowered down the cloth and studied her face. Creases wrinkled his face.
"You're not Freddie," he quietly said. "You're too sad to be her. Freddie was always smiling."
Winnifred wordlessly pulled him towards her, wrapping her arms around his neck. Hot tears scorched her cheeks. Pain and grief were ripping her apart, growling at each other on which one would have a larger piece of her.
"Why did you come?" Heath quietly asked. Winnifred tensed under his tightening grasp.
"Do you like it when I come?" she instead asked. Heath slowly pulled away, looking straight into her eyes. Winnifred felt the thin strings popping inside her, one by one.
"I think you know the answer," Heath quietly answered. Winnifred nodded, tears streaming down her face, and lowered her arms. Awkwardly tucking her hands in her pockets, Winnifred turned around and walked out of the garage.
It was the next day. The TV was on. Gordon sipped on his coffee, wondering if the person who killed Gefoltert was the same one who killed Calavera. The reports of the latter's murder came earlier this morning. Gordon wasn't really surprised. Events like that happened every other day. What surprised him more was the sight of Winnifred Lewly walking into the police department.
"Miss Lewly," Gordon lowered down his cup. "Good morning."
"Good morning, Lieutenant," the woman wearily said. "I'm sorry if I caused trouble for Arthur Bailey."
"Yes, he complained about this yesterday," Gordon smirked, walking around the table and towards her.
"What is it?"
Winnifred wordlessly pulled out a joker card out of her pocket and handed it to Gordon.
"That's his calling card. I don't know his name or alias. He's a double homicide, robbed some weapons."
Gordon stared at the card. It was a regular, classic style card, with a benevolent joker drawn on it. Gordon glanced back at the young woman.
"Anything else?"
Winnifred grimaced and shrugged.
"He has a sense for the theatrical."
Gordon nodded, sipping on his coffee and still looking on highs card in thought.
"Thank you, Miss Lewly. Don't worry, we won't bother you with cops anymore."
Winnifred nodded and walked out of the police department. You were right, Heath. One of them would've given you away. For the better or the worse.
A/N: So this is it guys! Final chapter of Part 4! Part 5 consists of only one chapter and an epilogue which is coming next week. I'll save all the fancy words and stuff for then, but just know that this has been as wild a ride for me as it was for you (at least, I hope so). See you all next week!