Chapter Eight
The first envelope came one week after Oswald Cobblepot had visited Detective Gordon. It was plainly mailed, with ordinary, black font across the front, directing itself to the Iceberg lounge. Still, despite its plain, understated writing, Oswald didn't like it. Especially considering it was addressed to 'Fish Mooney's Umbrella boy', and written plainly on the back, were the words, 'Information regarding The Joker'.
He'd had it x-rayed twice, and checked three times for traces of harmful substances before agreeing to open it. The letter was in the same plain font as the envelope, and there wasn't any nasty surprises in it either, just a few, oddly arranged numbers and signed with a name.
'41.87339562491056, -87.62077331542969,15.07.22,22.47.08
Roth Jeke'
Now, if Penguin hadn't sent out the bounty on information on this Joker, he would have burnt the damn thing before he gave it to the vigilante, but he really, really hated this clown. Oswald glanced down at the numbers for a moment, trying to tease out some sort of meaning from within the scattered figures, but there was nothing. It didn't make sense.
"Butch, take this directly to Detective Gordon and tell him it's about what we were discussing week ago", Butch nodded, picked up the letter, and left. Oswald settled back in his chair, glaring darkly across the mahogany table in front of him. Something about this wasn't right.
There was a bounty placed on any information available, so to have someone take the time of writing this carefully conceived letter full of nonsense, signing it and sending it to the Penguin under his former name, a name Oswald had been sure to stamp out of everyone who'd known it, showed this Roth had information that was hard to come by, and should be taken seriously. Just what else he knew was going to be Oswald's little task for the next few days.
•
Detective Gordon was equally as stumped. The letter he'd received from Cobblepot made no sense what so ever, and he was starting to wonder why the crime boss was so convinced it was legitimate when he noticed the envelope. Well, that would explain it.
Frowning, James sat back in his chair, eyes on the envelope. It had been clever, incredibly clever to send that to Penguin, whoever'd done it knew it would rile the man up enough to send it to Jim. That not only meant this Mr Jeke had somehow learnt of the conversation between Cobblepot and himself in the precinct a week previous, but had realised his best chance of ensuring this information landed on Gordon's desk and was taken seriously, was through the flustered criminal.
Despite this, the numbers made no sense to Gordon at all, and he had other leads he needed to follow up. After he'd put out the demand for witnesses to come forward, he'd been bombarded with calls and emails from people claiming to know the identity of the mysterious Joker, and trawling through all the crooks and cranks was more than enough for him to deal with. It was important though, too important to be ignored.
Gordon raised his eyes to the ceiling, then to the clock. It was 9pm, that should be late enough.
•
It was Detective Gordon on the roof of the precinct. Next to him, a huge spotlight was beaming up into the sky, splaying the figure of a bat against the dark clouds. Bruce liked it, it was menacing, and as much of a warning against crime as a way to call Batman. He leapt onto the roof, so quietly that Gordon didn't even realise he was there, "I take it this is your new way of contacting me", he said quietly from behind the older man.
Gordon turned around, one hand in his pocket, "So it is you, people were speculating whether the new Batman was the old vigilante". Batman inclined his head, "Does it matter?". The detective jutted his chin out slightly, "Yes, there's been an APB placed on you, and if it wasn't you who saved all those people in the bank, I would have arrested you".
Bruce had to fight the urge to smile; good old Jim Gordon, moral through and through, "Why did you call me?". The older man pulled an envelope from his pocket, and handed it over, "Thus was sent to Oswald Cobblepot exactly one week after I met with him to discuss tactics on catching the Joker. He'd agreed to use his resources to help speed up the investigation, and almost immediately recieved this".
Batman glanced down at the address on the front, "I see. Clever. I'll take a look". He pocketed the letter and turned to leave, "If you receive anything else like this, I want to know".
James smiled disbelievingly at his feet, "I shouldn't even be giving you that-", he looked up, and Batman was gone. He stood there for a few more moments, before walking over to the spotlight, turning it off, and walking back to the roof door. He had at least twelve 'witnesses' to interview before he was allowed home.
Jim sighed, it was going to be a long night.
•
The Bat-cave had gone from being Bruce Wayne's nightly residence, to his every waking hour residence, and Alfred didn't like it. The young master had spent almost a week in the moist, stuffy cavern, and would almost certainly get a cold if he didn't face daylight soon. It was the fault of some letter or another that he'd acquired from the police, something to do with the Joker, and Bruce was chest-deep in volumes like, 'Solving codes', and, 'The enigma machine'. In Alfred's opinion, it wasn't getting him anything except gaunt shadows under his eyes and a distinctly underfed look about him.
It got even worse when the next three letters arrived. Each a week apart, each handed to Batman by a flustered James Gordon, who was under steadily increasing pressure to catch the Joker. They were all coded in some sort of way, and all signed by the same name, Roth Jeke.
The second letter was perhaps even more bewildering than the first. It just read;
'153
Eight
Hark! Joker! Save me, male!
Roth Jeke'
Bruce hated to be clueless. There was every possibility that this was some sort of hoax who'd just happened to write the right thing on the envelope. He couldn't disregard it, though, because if these really were the clues to understanding the Joker, he should be putting ever single moment into cracking these codes.
The third letter read;
'26.03.22,18.01.56
Roth Jeke'
And the fourth,
'23.08.16,41.87339562491056, -87.62077331542969,00.14.65
Roth Jeke'
Batman was out nearly every night now, and despite there being a few nasty surprises left behind by the Joker at the scenes of his crimes, Alfred could tell Bruce was getting more and more frustrated at being one step behind.
If Alfred had thought the young master wasn't getting enough sleep three weeks ago, he certainly wasn't now. After his 'night shifts', Bruce would collapse into the desk chair and fall into a exhausted sort of REM sleep. He'd then wake up a couple of hours later, and pour himself into his work, trying to decode the letters.
One, very normal night, amidst the endless cycle of Bruce waking, sitting slumped over the numbers, and going out to vent his frustration as Batman, Bruce came home early. Now, Alfred wouldn't have thought anything of it when Bruce was younger, but Batman didn't come home early.
"The letters, Alfred, Gordon was right! It's in the letters", Bruce mumbled as he pulled off his cowl and kicked the desk chair out of the way. He splayed another sheet of paper over the work he'd done so far, and Alfred wondered over to have a look. It was simply a sheet of slightly crease white paper, with the words 'RED RUM', spelt across it in red crayon. It wasn't signed, or appear to have any meaning to Bruce at all.
Alfred let out a snort of laugher, "Why are you playing around with children's puzzles, Bruce?". Bruce frowned at his friend, pausing in his mad flicking through one of the books, "What are you talking about, Alfred? This was left by the Joker in the wake of his last heist".
Alfred smiled uncertainly, "Red rum, it's a children's phrase", Alfred paused, realising Bruce didn't know, "It's an anagram of the word murder". Bruce's eyes widened, and he dropped the book on the floor with a heavy thump. "Hark! Joker! Save me, male!", he whispered, and made a mad grab for another sheet of paper on the desk, before sprinting over to one of the computers in the hub.
"How could I have been so stupid!", He growled, punching the letters on the keyboard, "I was looking at the numbers! The numbers! I didn't even pay attention to the-". The screen lit up, a match. There was a match on the phrase. Bruce stared incomprehensibly at the screen. That wasn't possible. It just wasn't.
The computer program had re-arranged the letters into the phrase, 'Arkham, Jerome Valeska'.
Bruce began to shake, blinking rapidly at the screens. There was some sort of mistake. How, how could this Roth Jeke have known about Jerome? How could the Joker have known about Roth Jeke and Jerome. He loaded up a new tab, and typed in 'Roth Jeke', to the anagram solver. Another match.
The Joker.
Bruce needed to sit down. He staggered back towards the desk, fumbling for the chair, and collapsing into it. Alfred followed, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder and swallowing, "Master Bruce, I believe we need to do a bit of research into your old friend".
153. What could 153 and Eight have to do with Jerome Valeska and Arkham? And more importantly, how did the Joker know about this? Nobody knew about what happened to Jerome, not even Alfred. Bruce had made sure it didn't get public. Payed for a private trial and the very, very best lawyer through his own accounts, as a weak sort of apology for ruining Jerome's life.
He'd taken a step back then. Bruce hadn't even allowed himself the luxury of knowing where Jerome would end up, just that he wouldn't go to jail. All he'd asked of Milo Match was for Jerome not to be sent to jail.
153. Eight. Arkham.
Pleading insanity. It was just the sort of thing Match would do, bribe a psychiatrist to give Jerome the diagnosis, then cart him off to a mental institution. It wasn't jail. Technically. And the nearest Mental Institution was-, "Arkham". Bruce breathed.
•
"Yes, Mr Wayne, it's simply wonderful you taking an interest in one of your companies subsidiary's", the receptionist babbled as she showed the Wayne Billionaire into the lift. What Bruce had seen so far at Arkham made him feel absolutely terrified. Every single patient he saw flooded him with fear, then relief and an odd sense of disappointment when he realised it wasn't Jerome.
They travelled down to the basement layer, and the receptionist turned, an inquisitive look across her face, "Why are you so interested in cell 153 anyway? A random high-security crazy, why that one?". Bruce shrugged lightly, "Oh, the ladies love it when you can tell stories about trying to help people. If it's a criminal, even better". Her eyes tightened, and she barked out an insincere laugh, turning her back to him and facing the doors.
Now Bruce just looked like the jackass who owned the place and therefore did whatever he wanted with it. It didn't matter that the receptionist thought he was a dick, it might even work in his favour. Better camouflage. The receptionist lead him down the blocky halls, past the moaning and occasional scream of the cells inhabitants, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the building.
She finally came to a stop outside a cell, 153, "Here you go, hm, doesn't appear to be here right now. We'll just check where he's meant to be". Bruce stepped forwards, eyes searching out the information on the clipboard outside the cell. It was under Valeska, J. He swallowed and looked inside, it was plain, bare of everything except a bunk and a toilet. A thick layer of dust covered everything, and Bruce's eyebrows drew together.
"Doesn't look like anyone's been in here in years", he said quietly, and the receptionist blushed. "No, no, that can't be right. It says here he went for a therapy session with Dr Quinzel just this morning", she tittered, flusteredly flicking through the clipboard.
"Jerome? Jerome hasn't been in here for years", a hoarse laugh echoed from the cell next to them. Bruce walked slowly over, looking carefully through the bars. An elderly man sat up on his bunk against the wall, coughing weakly. Bruce pushed his hands into his pockets, "How do you know?".
The old man wheezed another laugh, speaking in a thick Spanish accent, "Oh it was very hush hush, you wouldn't believe me if I told you". "Try me", Bruce growled.
Calculating eyes met Bruce's, "What will you give me?". The receptionist bundled over, "Mr Wayne, I'm afraid your not authorised to speak to anyone except patient 153!", Bruce shushed her, eyes still on the wizened criminal. "What do you want?". The man grinned, "Well well, why does Jerome matter to Mr Bruce Wayne so much? A nasty little sociopath like that?", Bruce clenched his fists and forced himself to stay where he was. These people were insane, clever or both, a deadly recipe when combined with too much information.
Bruce forced the tension in his shoulders to lessen, "Don't make me repeat myself". The old man looked at him for a moment, "I want a cell with a window, overlooking somewhere green", Bruce nodded, "Done. Now, tell me".
"Mr Wayne!", the receptionist gasped, "You can't-", "Rumour is, Jerome got out", the old man whispered, "You see, the little shit was lucky enough to have a bank account full of money, and good looks", he paused, "A little like you, actually". Bruce glared, "Get on with it".
"Well, his psychiatrist was Dr Quinzel, a pretty, innocent little thing that happened to be Dr Arkham's step daughter. People say Jerome charmed her into helping him get loose, and it was never reported, because Dr Arkham didn't want his precious little step daughter getting in trouble with the police". The receptionist stepped forward, "This man is criminally insane. He is lying to make you move him upstairs where he has a better chance of escape".
Bruce sent her a look of disgust, "How old do you think this man is? Ninety? Eighty five? He's dying, miss, let him die somewhere with fresh air". She simply gaped at him, and Bruce continued, softer this time, "Stage four lung cancer. Am I right?". The old man laughed, his mirth twisting itself into a coughing fit. When he'd recovered, he wiped a bloody hand over his mouth, "That you are, Mister Wayne. If you really want some free advice, it's this: stay away from Jerome Valeska. I've seen the fakers, I've seen the insane, but the ones like Valeska are the most dangerous. Jerome Valeska is a criminal genius; a comodín". Bruce swallowed, and the man turned away.
Bruce took a deep breath and turned away, walking back towards the lift. "Mr Wayne! Mr Wayne you can't believe that man", the receptionist said as she ran after him. Bruce gave her a strange look, "Course I didn't, I just have a lunch with a supermodel to get to".
•
Bruce stared at his Spanish dictionary. Comodín. It was Spanish for Wild Card.
"This card is the most advantaged position in the game", Jerome said seriously, "You see, the Joker is allowed free access to the kings court, and who would suspect him of anything went wrong? He's just the clown, underestimated by everyone, but he is in the prime place to strike against the kingdom - if he so chooses", Jerome shrugged, then smirked, "If he's smart. There's a reason he's called the wildcard, you know"
Jerome had said that. Jerome had said that the day Bruce had made him get beaten up. A Joker.
He looked over at the other letters. He'd been approaching it wrong. Maybe it wasn't a code. Maybe it was something else. They weren't grid references, Bruce had tried that already, but what if they were? What if they were grid references and something else?
Bruce ran the numbers again, separating the numbers and checking them against grid references. On the fifth run, the computer beeped cheerfully. A match. Bruce leant forwards, scanning the screen. They were grid references for Gotham, but then there were two other sets of three numbers hanging off the end. He stared at them for a moment, before it came to him. Dates. Dates and times.
Bruce's hands were a blur as they raced across the keyboard, events on the 15/07/22. A massacre. At Haley's Circus. Bruce felt light-headed as he read the death count. Everyone. The whole circus had been murdered in its sleep. Bruce had been off, had fled Gotham's streets by then, and horrific as it was, circus folk didn't have families to organise memorials. Especially if they were all dead.
There was a picture, underneath a series of warnings saying that the photo below was not to be seen by anyone under the age of eighteen. Bruce scrolled down. It was of two men, one in his early fifties most likely, with his head bashed in, and the other only a few years older than Bruce himself, strangled to death. The caption below read, 'Owen Lloyd, 54, one of the most brutally murdered alongside his son, Dan Lloyd'.
Dan Lloyd.
"You're a cocky little shit, aren't you? Disrespecting me. Now you've made me angry", the leader, Dan, said calmly, "You couldn't leave now if you tried, rude brat".
Dan had been the one who'd strangled Bruce that day at the circus. And Owen, Owen was the one who'd beaten Jerome up. Oh god. No one but Bruce would see any connection to this. Which meant that Jerome was the Joker, and knew Batman was Bruce Wayne.
Right from the start. Jerome had known it was him.
•
The phone rang.
Jerome had been expecting it to ring, to be honest. He'd been sitting in his chair for the last eight hours, barely moving. His clowns were probably waiting in the main room of the warehouse, near the money, or maybe they'd already made off with it, he didn't really care. It was almost time. Jerome'd been waiting for this for the last eight years.
He thought back over the last ten seconds, each one wondering if it would be the glorious moment of revelation when Bruce realised it was him. That it had always been him. It was euphoric. Better than any drug.
He caressed the receiver fondly, the moment he picked it up, he would get the news, the news he already knew. Grasping it firmly, Jerome brought it to his ear.
"Hello", he whispered, time dragging deliciously. "Hey, it's me", a soft, feminine voice breathed down the phone, "He came, went down to your cell, and he knows". Jerome had never been particularly fond of Harleen Quinzel, even when she let him out, but she had done well, "Thank you darling, I'm very grateful".
Placing the phone back onto its stand, Jerome licked his lips. No more waiting. No more leaving before Batman arrived.
Now, he would finally, finally start the end.