Chapter Four: Copy Cat

Rolling over with his arm stretched, only the cool untouched sheets met his grasp. Bothered. Annoyed. Bereft of her presence. It was strange how acclimated he had become to her, even sleeping on his side of the bed despite her absence. The mattress was new and had never known anything other than her purring snores and depraved demands. The screams, the moans, the whining. Her side buckled inwards, the shape of her. Odd to be tied down to a concept, for Harley was still a work in progress. But for now, Mr. J was unencumbered.

Flipping the sheet off, he immediately headed to the bathroom, catching sight of his makeup caked face in the mirror. After relieving himself, he turned a faucet handle, warm water flowing quickly. A splash to his face, grabbing Harley's facial soap, cleanser, whatever the fuck she called it. The colors mixed in the sink, reflective of his mood. Gray. With the touch of red.

Mind clean, face clean, he ran through the details. The Thomas Elliot affair had been sorted, rather transparent to his keen skills once he evaluated it fully, Harley playing her role. He put it from mind. Gordon. All those deaths at his feet. Time to step up the game. The deceiver, putting lies into the mob. Standing behind the policy of not giving into terrorists. While the hospital thing had been helpful, it was a mere drop in the bucket for what he had planned. No, not planned. Plans always failed. No room for improvisation. Operations, though, were another matter.

Mr. J opened the door to the bedroom and called out for Doc before opening the battered dresser and slipping on a pair of clean boxers. He made a note that he would need to have Doc do some laundry since Harley was gone. Wormed her way into his world. Ingrained. Cooking, cleaning, all the little things. Mr. J was never sure how long the dance would continue between them but so useful, his little harlequin, making life a little easier. Trousers slid on, black, simple, just as Doc appeared at the door.

"What do you want?" Doc was slurring his words.

A quick look at the digital readout on the nightstand told him it was well past drunk-o-clock for Doc. He assessed the man at the door for a moment. Leaned against the doorframe but not for support. Laziness. Holding his liquor fine, despite speech. Still useful. "Call Livingston. We're heading there in an hour. I need the revised specs for the yard. And get me something to eat."

"You didn't eat when you were out?" Doc asked. "I would have grabbed a couple of burgers on site."

"What are you talking about?"

"Inspired," Doc said. "Truly. I almost did the same thing once. Not enough ketchup in my bag. And why can't I order an Egg McMuffin after 10:30am? It's lunacy, I say. Order breakfast when you want!" Doc laughed, the sound almost maniacal. "Won't make that mistake again."

Mr. J frowned and grabbed Doc by his shirt, slamming him into the door. "What. Are. You. Talking. About?"

Doc winced in pain, the alcohol wafting from his breath, stinking up the air around him. "It's all over the news, your killing spree at McDonalds. Fifteen dead. Joker card on scene. Witnesses."

Releasing the drunk, he snatched the remote off the dresser, turning on the TV. GCN flared to life, his message being the top story, as always. No longer the hospital. McDonalds. Only an outside visual of the building as a reporter interviewed a survivor claiming the Joker came in, ordered a chocolate milkshake before gunning down most of the people in the restaurant. Two hours ago. Improbable. His frown deepened. Not his play. Not his style. No point to be made. Confusion, chaos.

Doc smirked, moving next to Mr. J. "I guess you didn't appreciate them asking if you wanted fries with that shake."

"Shut up." Mr. J began to pace the room while watching the story unfold on the television. "I'm not much for sleepwalking," he muttered to himself, as GCN announced they received the feed from the security cameras.

Security footage was blurry, only the first few moments. GCN was discreet as usual, cutting out the carnage, but as stated, the video showed the Joker. Someone had been studying. Mr. J moved closer to the television, staring at the figure before him. The walk, the way the gun was held, near perfection. Looked to be the same model of gun he regularly used. No voice to analyze but he saw the tiny differences. The cut of the suit, not quite right. Pocket watch chain didn't fall correctly on the pants leg. More importantly, the scars. The cut was correct, raised as his, but off, just a bit. The split on the lip was vertical, not the slight diagonal.

"Copy cat," he said.

"Seriously?" Doc asked. "You sure it's not a clone? They can do that you know." His eyes shifted conspiratorially, fear growing behind them. "Make a perfect copy. Then they kill you, take your life over, and soon, it's back to experimenting on poor old Doc. I can't do that again. I can't!" His voice became near hysterical.

From an outside point of view, Doc's condition could be seen with humor, but the terror behind his eyes was real, primal. Crane was quite the craftsman, creating life long delusions in many of his victims. The former psychiatrist had a cell across from his and when he got bored, he'd recount the many fears he invoked, relishing them as a fat man would a steak. Doc was just another victim, caught up in a world that would exploit or mock his weakness. Mr. J almost pitied the cowering man.

Almost.

A crack across Doc's face brought him back to reality. "Grow some balls," Mr. J said. "Just a pretender wanting to capture my glory and failing miserably."

Doc rubbed his cheek before slipping his hand into his pocket, pulling out a flask. A way of coping, liquid courage against his delusions. Drawing on it, he nodded. "But who would ever want to pretend to be you?"

A glare. "Batman has pretenders. Why can't I?" Imitation was the highest form of flattery, it was said. Not imitation, though. Mockery. Had to admire the chaos but no message. Mr. J had flair, style, a way of exposing the truth behind the mask. Contrary to Doc's word, this was uninspired and an insult to his persona. Twice insulted in two days. He pondered at a connection. Further analysis would be needed.

"Call Livingston. We're going as soon as I'm dressed."

He turned, dismissing Doc with a wave. He donned a black button down shirt, combing his hair back into a ponytail while staring at the empty bed. Two pairs of handcuffs dangled from either side of the wrought iron headboard. A necessary addition for Harley's random impulses when he allowed her to sleep in his room instead of the basement. Hope that she would not revert back on her training while she was away. A waste of time to redo. But also hope that she would. Her cursing, crying, and writhing as she was broken down day by day was breathtaking to witness. It was unlikely he would be able to do that with a mind such as hers again.

Tonight would be incognito. No makeup. No purple clothing. Livingston disliked his public persona and he was willing to put it aside for the expertise he needed. Quickly, he moved several blades from his purple trench to his pockets. Ready to move. He bound down the stairs, snatching the sandwich that Doc was about to stuff in his mouth. Doc looked up, angry, likely plotting some form of revenge for the slight. Mr. J grinned before taking a large bite, salami and cheese. He tossed the remaining sandwich back to his lackey and headed to the kitchen. Cereal. The best filler.

"Let's go," he said, pulling a pea coat on, holding the box of cereal in his hand. A gun already in the pocket. Second Amendment. A beautiful thing.

The ride to Livingston's was silent except for a local news station and the loud crunch of dry cereal. Doc's cigarette smoke swirling inside the tight confines of the Taurus. A basic car. Like so many on the road. All vehicles in his arsenal had two things in common. Inconspicuous and tinted windows. Movement was essential and his face was far too recognizable, even without the distinct greasepaint. Disguise was an art that Mr. J took seriously. His last stay at Arkham had been entertaining due to his dance with Harleen Quinzel, but he suspected the next time would not have such a pleasant distraction. Best not to get caught doing something so trivial.

Livingston lived in a posh neighborhood. Expensive, but not as over the top as the Palisades. The apartment was on the top floor, penthouse. No sign of police as he and Doc climbed out of the car. Rarely visible in a neighborhood like this where the biggest crime was the occasional mugging or break in. But cop response time was fast. Too much risk. Mr. J smiled at the doorman as they entered, recognition at the scars. But the doorman was paid handsomely by Livingston, on the side, to keep silent. Greed. It helped sometimes for anonymity.

An elevator ride, instant penthouse access and they were in the receiving room for Livingston. Doc rang the bell, customary, and it wasn't long before a woman wearing a very short black skirt and a World of Warcraft t-shirt appeared. Livingston. First name Kristin but she preferred her professional contacts called her by her last name. Short pink hair tickling her chin, an angled bob, cigarette in hand. Piercings on her lip, multiples lining her ears, poking through the fabric of her tight shirt at her nipples and belly button. Her demeanor, the way she moved, the smell in the air indicated she had just left the arms of a lover, frustrated and unsatisfied. The call must have interrupted her nightly entertainment.

"Sorry about the mess," Livingston said, her voice quiet, polite, as they passed her to enter her apartment which looked like a hurricane passed through. "Next time, would you please give me more notice?"

"Too important to wait," Mr. J said, glancing over at Doc, who in turn was staring at Livingston as if he'd never met her before. Seeing her in a new light. Interesting. Perhaps the two kids could make a go of it and he'd stop sending love letters to Dr. Leland.

Livingston's home was a modern wonder. Large flat screen hooked to the wall, two smaller ones below it for multiple viewing. A bay of computers settled into the back corner, raised high on top of a large corner desk, multiple keyboards, monitors, one large desk chair planted in front of the massive display. The pleasant white noise of all the systems. His technical expert. Open space, kitchen on the right, island, stainless steel appliances, takeout boxes strewn like clothing. Two black couches, a loveseat, and a comfy chair in the center, most facing the televisions.

"No Harley today?" Livingston settled into her desk chair, crossing her legs demurely. Despite her brash outward appearance, she was a reserved, shy woman, spending much of her time in the company of her computers.

"Harley's out of commission for now," Mr. J answered.

"Oh, please don't tell me you broke her," She sounded disappointed. "She's such a sweetheart." Livingston clearly didn't know Harley that well. When Mr. J said nothing, she continued. "So what's so important tonight?"

"You seen the news today?"

"Haven't had the chance to check my news feed yet. Is there a problem?" She turned, flicking on a set of two connected monitors.

"Would I be here if there wasn't?" Mr. J dug through his pockets and tossed her the flash drive Harley had acquired, before sitting down in the comfy chair. "That's the data you requested. Is your lover still here?"

She quirked an eyebrow, always surprised at his powers of observation. "No. I asked her to leave when I got your call. I didn't think you'd want anyone else involved in whatever you came here for."

Doc stilled as she said that. "I, uh, didn't know you were a lesbian."

Mr. J laughed at the awkwardness of Doc. "She's not. Livingston plays for both teams. So cheer up, Doc, you still have a shot."

The enjoyment Mr. J got from the sheer mortification that flushed through the schizoid was almost worth the trip. Doc pulled out his flask, taking another drink while Livingston flipped between windows on her system, poignantly ignoring the conversation, crushing her used cigarette into an ashtray on the desk. The uncomfortable energy of the room. A wonderful thing to invoke. But not the point. Distraction.

"You went on a killing spree at a McDonalds?" Livingston asked, the story up on her left monitor. "Not exactly subtle."

"Not my work," Mr. J said. "Which is why I'm here. Anyone tag you about this?"

"No."

"You wouldn't be lying to me, would you?" Menace in his tone.

Livingston spun in her chair to face him, her eyes going wide, her words fast. "We have an agreement and I would never break that. I owe you too much so I would never lie to you."

Before his fame, he searched out experts in technical matters for the trickier aspects of his work. While many were to be found, Livingston was fresh, only eighteen at the time, and far easier to manipulate to his ends. On the run from her father, an abusive relationship he'd surmised, she was desperate and terrified when Mr. J first flushed her out in Gotham. Her father, the owner of a large insurance corporation, wanted his precious angel back, sending his hounds after her, wherever she went. Livingston was only able to stay ahead of them because of her skills. Mr. J solved her little problem with dear old dad, earning her gratitude and the keys to her father's vast fortune.

Livingston was one of the best in her field. Hacking, electronics, even some demolitions. Mr. J never questioned where she learned her skills, not caring. Her background didn't matter. It was her usefulness that he was concerned with. She did other side jobs for the criminals of Gotham but in a heartbeat, she would drop everything if he called, a debt that would never be repaid in her eyes. Easy prey. Livingston designed the detonators he used in the ferry experiment, the cell phone trigger for both the mad man at the police precinct and the patient in Gotham Memorial. And so much more.

Mr. J nodded. "Can you cleanup the security footage? Get me a better look at the walking dead man pretending to me?" Bone structure could rule out a good number of individuals.

"This isn't a movie," she said, turning back to the monitors. "The only thing you'll get is larger pixelation of his face, not helpful. However, if you like, I can try hacking into police records as they file evidence. See if there is something useful there?" She looked at him in askance.

"Do it. And call me when you get something." Mr. J understood these things took time. Patience, always.

"You got it."

A thought. "Also, I want anything you can find on Dr. Thomas Elliot. Anything." The information had been sorted but background would be useful. Wasteful not to use his best resource.

Livingston paused for a moment, her fingers touching the bridge of her nose, her thinking pose. She knew something, trying to recall it. Then her fingers went to work on her keyboard, eyes squinted, nose scrunched. Files flashing across both screens, faster than he could follow. Finally, the screen stopped on what looked to be an official notice. Too far away to see from his vantage point.

"I knew it!" Livingston exclaimed. "I knew I saw that name in the past week."

"In what regards?"

"Remember how you asked me to keep tabs on personnel, patients, and visitors at Arkham?" She pointed to the screen. "Dr. Thomas Elliot visited a patient last Wednesday."

"Interesting. Which one?"

A few more keystrokes. Livingston read the file as it appeared. "Minimum security. Name of Peyton Riley. Female, age 28. Diagnosed with schizophrenia. Her attending psychiatrist is Dr. Jeremiah Arkham."

"I don't recall meeting her," Mr. J looked over to Doc. "You?"

Doc nodded. "Yeah, I saw her a few times. She's a lifer. Crazy bitch thinks her dolls are alive or something. Never really talked to her."

"Won't have the chance now," Livingston said, looking at another document. "She committed suicide three days ago."

A twist. A good mystery. "Did Elliot visit her at any other time?" Mr. J asked.

She typed furiously, lightning speed. "I'm not seeing any other logs with his name. Could have been deleted but unlikely. There's always a record somewhere. I'll keep checking."

"Good. Include anything you can find on Peyton Riley, coroner's report as well." Mr. J took out his cell phone and pressed the speed dial for Harley. New details. New connections to be made. A single visit either meant he was requesting something only Peyton Riley could provide, or he knew the girl prior but wanted to keep the relationship secret. Both held interesting possibilities.

"Harley," he said when the line clicked.

"Checking up on me?" Harley's voice sounded tired over the phone, yet still excited to hear his voice. "Careful, don't want people thinking you have a heart or anything."

"No. I have another assignment for you," Mr. J said, a smile crossing his face as he stood, walking over to Livingston. "Tommy-boy had a tete-a-tete with one of Arkham's finest and I want to know everything about it."

"Who?"

"A patient named Peyton Riley."

A pause from her. "Really." Flat tone.

"You know her?" Mr. J looked at the visitor log that Livingston had on the screen. A twenty-three minute visit. A short time span for any visit. Not enough for a heart to heart if they had history.

"Yes, I do." The monotone in her voice was disturbing. Terse, unlike her. Lack of emotion in her was never a good sign. "I'll get back to you."

The line went dead. Mr. J frowned at the phone before slipping it back into his pocket. If she had been in his presence, Harley's face, body posture, would have told him everything he wanted to know. For now, he would accept the lack of insight and trust his girl would succeed in gaining the knowledge he sought. And his frown turned back to a smile. Harley, always the apple that needed more peeling.

"Livingston, also send me anything about Harleen Quinzel's connections to either Thomas Elliot or Peyton Riley.

Better safe than sorry.

Across the city, Harley pressed the off button on her phone as Thomas entered the room. Snuggled into a comforter, she turned off the blaring television, putting her phone down on the nightstand. A change of the I.V. bag. More nutrients to keep her going. She smiled sweetly at him as he took the bag down, hiding the bitter rage that wanted to consume her.

"So Thomas, why don't you tell me about Peyton Riley."

The silence that greeted her was deafening.

A/N: Do you feel the new characters are getting enough depth? I'm trying not to introduce them in one lump sum but unlike "Repression," there is a big world outside of Harley and Mr. J. Let me know! And thank you all for all your support so far!