Chapter Twelve: Questions and Riddles
Renee returned to work after a few days, looking a little dishevelled, but eager to throw herself back into the work. The Warehouse Massacre, as it was quickly becoming known, had evidently shaken up the usually lethargic Chiefs.
Renee found herself in charge of Two more new Detectives, transfers from Vice. Not the best candidates for a unit dedicated to Major Crimes and serial gang warfare and homicides, but the best they were likely to get at a time like this.
Renee considered the two new-comers, as they sat around their new desks, drinking coffee. She'd had a rough couple of days, but there was no time for any real break. She had work to do. Always work.
"Detective Kovaleski?" She asked, gruffly. A young, scrawny woman with blonde-hair, green eyes and pale skin in a well-laundered office suit stood up, saluting Montoya.
"Captain. A pleasure to be working with you." She said, smiling thinly. Montoya growled at her. "No need for formalities, green-horn. This is the MCU. We're not on show here."
The younger detective reddened, but simply nodded, stiffly. "What do you need from me, ma'am?"
"Call me Montoya. And what I need..." she sighed, massaging her temples. "What I want is a drink. What I need is aspirin. What I need you and..." she checked the notes left on her desk.
"Detective Flass. You two are newcomers to this unit, so normally I'd pair each of you with the other veterans here. Unfortunately I rather need Detective Wills attending to something that requires delicacy. Kovaleski, you'll be with me, learning paperwork. Flass, you'll be shadowing Bullock."
Flass sat up from where he'd been leaning. Unlike Kovaleski, he wasn't looking to impress, or put more effort into anything than needed to be. A thick, muscular man with close-shaven brown hair, he simply regarded Montoya with quiet disdain.
Montoya noted the insolence, and Kovaleski's own look of uncertainty. Bullock was just coming into the office, and Wills hadn't arrived yet. Screw it. He'd have to catch up.
"Alright, listen up everybody!" she yelled, suddenly. Hardly necessary, since the other three people were all looking at her. She went on, with conviction. "Apparently the possibility of a turf war over arms-smuggling in Gotham has been enough to convince the Commissioner to restore some of MCU's lost prestige and capability." She regarded the two new-comers with her own disdain.
"I think this is bullshit. And so do all of you, whether you realise it or not." She picked up a case-file, and almost threw it at Flass, who looked surprised.
"There's bigger things afoot in the Criminal Underworld, and I aim to get to the bottom of it. One way or another, Black Mask and all those like him are going down. But we can't do that if our hands are tied by turf wars of our own. Black Mask may be everyone's problem, but we are the ones who are going to deal with this. Not the ATF, Not the FBI, and most definitely -not- the DEA."
She strolled over, and pulled Flass up by his tie, who was now protesting.
"Hey, what are you doing-"
"Arnold Flass. You're thinking you'll be back in Vice in six weeks after you're done ratting everything to the Chief and your buddies in the DEA."
He began to sweat, uncertain how she could possibly have known any of this.
"That's not true-"
"Shut up." She said, firmly. "Detective Al- Alyona? Alyona Kovaleski. Nice name. Maybe you're also thinking that you'll be having my job in six months to a year. Keep dreaming. I ain't retiring, and you ain't stepping over me."
She released Flass, letting him flump back into his chair, and now she raised a coffee mug, empty, from the desk.
"There is one thing and one thing only in this department. And that is the work. Politics, social lives, other agendas...no one is permitted these things until the work is done. And the work is -never- done. Do you understand me?"
They looked at her. They slowly nodded. Even Bullock looked a bit open-mouthed.
"Alright. Kovaleski. I got a mountain of paper-work on my desk. You can start by working through it. Bullock, find something for Flass to do. The work starts here. We're detectives. Nothing else."
She swept from the room, carrying away her laptop and the USB stick of things she'd left here. She didn't have time to be a good administrator or even a Good Captain. Her speech, she knew, was a little hypocritical. But she knew that was she was doing was important. The new-comers would have to fend for themselves.
"Wow. What a..." Flass began, but Bullock slammed his own case-loads down on Flass's desk. "Don't say it. Even if she's not around." he grinned evilly at the rookie detective.
"She has a way of finding out." he returned to his own desk, and began slurping his coffee loudly, before beginning to type away at his battered computer. When both Kovaleski and Flass continued to stare in silence, a little confused, he looked up, growling.
"Look. I know this isn't what you expected. It feels like busy-work. And you're right, it is. But it is also work. If you haven't figured it out yet, we don't have time to hold your hands and explain how MCU works. You're just going to have to learn by doing, same as everybody else."
With a grunt of dismissal, he returned to his own personal project. Like Montoya, he was following his gut instincts. It seemed like all three of MCU's surviving veterans were pursuing personal agendas now. The Chiefs probably would be right to come down on them, and for wasting the time of their two new additions like this. But neither he nor Montoya cared. Bigger things -were- afoot. And that meant those who knew how to handle this kinda shit, had to step up.
There's no learning curve in Gotham. Only the smart and the dead.
While Montoya settled office politics and Bullock continued his own investigation into the vigilante who'd caused the Warehouse Massacre, Ray had the harder task of gathering information on this "Riddler".
It was hard to determine whether such a person even existed, and outside of MCU hardly anyone who wasn't a conspiracy theorist believed the Prospero Oil Rig explosion was anything other than an industrial accident.
His work was going with agonising slowness. In a way, this was helpful to him. He was no longer burning the midnight oil forcing himself to grind this or any other case. He had more time to relax, to talk with Barbara and her carer, the delightful Patricia. Ray had realised, even if Barbara hadn't, that Patricia didn't seem to have a surname. He found out it was Corman, and wondered why she seemed so reluctant to use her family name. He suspected that she'd become a nurse for someone like Barbara because of sympathy over family troubles.
But when he wasn't socialising with the carer or just making sure Barbara wasn't pushing herself too hard, he was spending more and more time in places that were sleazier and sleazier, trying to get feelers out into the criminal underworld, hoping to find any sort of rumour or word on some crazed new player in Gotham, one with a penchant for riddles.
His next breakthrough, was once again thanks to the Gotham Coast Guard, who he'd gotten friendly with and asked them to forward any more really strange finds in their patrols, especially bodies with notes stuffed in them.
The recovery of some barely identifiable body parts in the Bay, not far from Arkham Island, was suggestive. The chunks had been wrapped in whale-oil hide, and had apparently been thoroughly "nibbled" by the local marine life, before bits and pieces had made their way to the surface. Apparently even sharks had trouble eating all of a large human. At least, coastal sharks did.
If there had been any riddles attached, they would long have disintegrated or been torn apart in the waters, but one clue he'd been able to find- and at this point he started to question whether he was suffering from the same Pareidolia he'd accused Bullock of several weeks earlier- he'd found signs of question mark-like marks on some of the cloth the bodies had been wrapped in.
It was thin, but it was something. Of course, it was also something that didn't really point him in any directions. Even identifying the body parts had been impossible. They could have been almost anyone.
He was looking over tide-reports in a half-daze, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee by his side, when Barbara came up to him. He blinked, remembering he was at home, and she had been due to come over...oh, half an hour ago. Once again he'd gotten lost in minutiae, and lost track of time, and, apparently, place. He blushed, realising she must have let herself in.
"Those lock-picking lessons you managed to bully your father into letting you have must come in handy sometimes, huh?" he asked with a grin, turning his full attention to the slender young girl.
"No, you just leave your spare key in the same place all the time. Come on, Ray, you're supposed to be a detective." she joked. "Patricia was going to wait for you, but when I told her you were probably wrapped up in your work -yet again-, she went and had a last look around the shops nearby before they closed. "
Ray smiled, and pushed his work away. Old habits did indeed die hard. But he was enjoying his time with Patricia Corman, and he was immeasurably relieved to see that Barbara was almost miraculously starting to look somewhat healthy again. Her skin remained weirdly pale and waxy, and her natural red-hair was still thin and wiry.
It would be a long time before that damage ever truly healed. But he could see that her diet and exercise regimens were clearly having an effect, as subtle signs of muscle and body fat growth could be seen along her once largely skeletal frame. He noted she had also taken to wearing t-shirts that showed off more of her arms and her neckline, something she would have been far too self-conscious to do not too long ago.
"You look good." he said, and meaning it. "How's the exercise regimen?" he asked, recalling that after her last therapy session she'd seemed determined to put more effort into getting physically stronger.
"Its going." she said sourly. Once again, matching resolve to the sheer amount of time and effort required was proving an enormous frustration. Each time she thought she'd crested a hill in her recovery, there was a yet steeper mountain in front of her.
Not wanting to dwell too much on her own problems, she quickly changed the subject. "You want to catch up with Patricia? She's probably lingering looking at the sports goods shop. I think we re-awoke her passion for hockey, that or the season is starting up again, she's buying us all scarves." Barbara smiled.
"Actually..." she said with a sigh, before Ray could respond. "There is another matter." She fidgeted awkwardly, uncertain how to broach this, finding grasping the subject difficult enough for herself.
"What is it, Babs? You know you can talk to me about uh anything. Well, most anything..." he said, mumbling awkwardly. This wouldn't be a feminine problem would it? He was definitely not ready to handle anything like that.
"No! Jeeze Ray, get your mind out of the gutter. It's about my...family. They're coming over for Thanksgiving. I'd like you to be there too." She said, releasing her worry with a sigh.
"Your family? But they've well...I mean..." He frowned. Both her mother and her step-mother, not to mention the other relatives, had largely kept their distance from the scarred "joker's girl", perhaps too traumatised by the death of Jim and the hideousness of Barbara's initial appearance and behaviour. They had tried to be sympathetic at first, but in the weeks immediately after her "rescue", she had not been herself at all, and had said things that had alienated her family to some degree. It didn't help that even before the incident, she had been less than close with her mother, and had been quite an exhaustive handful as a teenager.
Even so, it had shocked Ray to his core when both women had more or less absented themselves entirely from Barbara's life. For months it had been just him and Patricia and the doctors of Arkham. For as bad as Barbara had been, what kind of family abandons their eldest daughter to suffer alone like that? It was hardly worth thinking about.
And now, for Barbara to see them again, at a Thanksgiving dinner, as if everything was normal again now...it was almost too surreal to be believed. He grimaced. No, this was one thing he would not leave her to face alone.
"If you need me, I got your back, partner." he said, trying to joke a little. But it seemed to be exactly the right thing to say, as her face was lit up by a warm and very human smile.
"Thank you, Ray. I just...It would suck if they got me angry again." she muttered cryptically to herself, but clearly relieved. "Patricia's offered to come too but I really don't think that would be...right. Knowing her she'd chew them out something fierce."
Ray nodded. "She would at that."
"Anyway, its a few days away and just...well, let's try and enjoy ourselves until then." She murmured. "There's some really nice training weights I saw in the sports store the other day..."
Ray followed her down, still not quite believing the transformation she had made in such a short time. Then again, it seemed her interests were still quite overwhelmingly narrow. She cared for little that did not directly or indirectly enable her to improve herself or her knowledge. It seemed at times like she had some sort of check-list or schematic in front of her eyes, and anything that didn't meet her private blueprints was discarded or ignored.
Barbara simply skipped out into the street, feeling energised. At times it was still easy to feel short of breath, but she'd gotten better at managing her energy. She'd taken so long to approach Ray and disturb his reverie in part because she was harbouring her energy and taking her time. Her body was still weak in many ways, she knew, and it would be long before she could even move as fast or as far as a normal person, let alone meet the superior standard of a superhero like she craved.
Bruce Wayne had called, once. Asking if she'd reconsidered. For a moment she wanted to say yes, but she said instead she wanted to try developing things on her own. He'd seemed to accept that, and promised to help her find someone who could give her personal defence lessons.
She'd been surprised at his helpfulness, especially after the tone and stance he'd taken with her at the Asylum. She wondered what exactly his angle in all this was. Unlike the older Thomas Wayne, his demons seemed...more subtle.
He'd encouraged her to set her own pace, and to aspire to be the best she could be. He'd also promised that both of the Waynes would see her again in person before Christmas, if she wanted.
She very much wanted that. The idea of becoming the Dark Knight, as Thomas Wayne seemed to have considered, was still a strange one to her. But as she had found from her "therapy sessions" and encounter with Zsasz, there were potent reasons for her to seek a career- no, a life- in fighting the sort of crime that had crippled her.
She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, dim memories surfacing. She hated the Joker. She hated him with every fiber of her being. She hated him more, knowing that in some indefinable way, more than just her physical injuries, he had left his poison in her. She was afraid that it was this taint which had driven her family away. Left her incapable of engaging with people. Left her with nothing but despair and hatred. She would never forgive the dead clown for that. Or her family, for leaving her. Or herself. She was not big on forgiveness in general.
She schooled her face to stillness, remembering where she was, and who she was with. She hurried down the street, while the bemused detective followed.
Katharine Kane inhaled the smoke from her cigarette, watching as the woman she'd sheltered for several days finally getting onto a bus for Star City. She sighed, leaning against the bus-shelter, the cigarette's heat a dim point of warmth in an increasingly cold winter. The weathermen were already predicting one of the worst winters in a long time, possibly in the century. She didn't much care. She kept to herself mostly, living her own life away from her shitty family.
She allowed herself a cold smile. Renee was kinda like the cigarette. A dim point of warmth in an increasingly cold life. Coming out had been painful for Kat, and she didn't envy Renee her triple-life, concealing both her lesbianism and her vigilantism from just about everyone.
She let out a long exhalation of smoke and breath, before extinguishing the cigarette with her boot. It was just typical of Renee that after their months of separation and coldness, no calls no nothing, she'd turn up in a cold morning with a wanted fugitive in tow. Sometimes Kat wished Renee would put half as much effort into her friendships and relationships as she did into the pursuit of Justice.
"God damnit, Renee. Dont get killed." she said to herself, sadly. That girl had a death-wish sometimes. She'd thought about making some sort of costume or suit herself, or just going out with a balaclava on and stalking Renee, to make sure she was safe.
But there had been that argument. The drinking. She couldn't save Renee. Only Renee could save Renee, maybe. She just wished sometimes it was clear if Montoya even wanted to save herself.
She watched as the bus drove off into the foggy morning, beginning its long-trip across America. Rebecca would ride it all the way to the city on the West Coast, hopefully safe from any reprisals by the Black Mask. It was far more than she deserved, Kat knew.
More than once the Question had raged and shouted, wanting to put a bullet in Mulcahey's brain, seeming to argue with herself as much as anyone else. But Rebecca had lived, and stayed, and a very uncomfortable stretch of time had unfurled, Rebecca living and lying low, not allowed outside, simply watching television or doing push-ups.
Talking had been forbidden, at first, but Rebecca had been full of questions. Kat had made up a bunch of lies, but even that had gotten boring after a while, and they'd reluctantly started to talk. Mulcahey seemed to be full of remorse for her shitty life, and at first that had been boring too, but it had gone on and on and Kat had finally started listening.
When Mulcahey had finally seemed finished, Kat had shared just two short sentences about her own life with the crooked ex-cop. That shut her whining up for good. It was the only time she'd felt any satisfaction about those facts in her life.
As the bus disappeared down the highway, she turned, reluctantly, trudging up the frosty path-way back to her house, to feed her dogs and get back to the life she'd been living before all this mess. She'd barely spoken to Renee at all during the entire ordeal, though Montoya had offered her gratitude to Kat very explicitly one night.
But that was the pain of it, really. Beyond giving Renee what she needed when she needed it, Kat didn't really have much to connect her to the driven detective-cum-vigilante. They both hated crime and the scum-bag men usually behind it of course, but Kat just didn't feel the same odd driving frenzy that Renee did.
She wondered at her own inner peace, given her own rough background. What made her so different from Montoya? Why did she have a degree of inner peace, and why was Renee consumed by her demons?
She shrugged. She didn't have a clue, and she didn't really buy into that philosophy crap either. She was way out of all that crap in Gotham, and she was fine with things the way they were.
She just hoped that this Mulcahey girl thing didn't come back to haunt either of them.