[ odd one out ]
Present Day…
Rain battered the cracked sidewalks of the East End. Puddles that formed at dips in the walkways or gathered at the curbside reflected the hazy neon signs of the buildings above. It was 6:00 p.m., though it felt much later than that. The skies above were as dark as the stone Gotham was chipped from, an impenetrable mass of soot-gray that rumbled with occasional thunder. Ominous, maybe, to someone in Metropolis or Central city, but for Gothamites it was just another Tuesday evening.
The East End was quiet. Its people kept themselves busy indoors, dry and warm, chattering in hushed tones beneath the dim lighting of whatever seedy establishment they found themselves at. It was never good to make too much noise in the East End, no matter how much the neighborhood had improved over the years. You'd only end up attracting the wrong kind of attention.
But tonight's brand of quiet was… different. Ask any resident and they'll tell you just so, though they won't be able to explain why. It just was. It was a quietness that held itself sharp. Still. Like a finger resting on the trigger of a gun just before it's fired.
And fire it did.
At 6:06 p.m. Araceli Reyes dialed 911 after hearing loud noises in the apartment next door. She double checked that all three of her locks are bolted shut and hid in her bedroom with a baseball bat in her lap. She wanted to think it's nothing, but this was Gotham. East End Gotham. Sure, Araceli was new to town, but even she knew that it's never just nothing in Gotham.
At 6:15 p.m. Gotham police arrive at Atwood Apartments to check out the report. No one answered them at the door. When police broke into the apartment, it was to the sight of the room's lone occupant, dead on the floor. There's a chair toppled over next to the victim. A picture frame that fell off the wall and had its frame cracked was lying nearby. The rest of the apartment contained no noticeable disrepair. The medical examiner that arrived later would pronounce the victim dead via a myocardial infarction, and that was that.
Another dead, another gone in Gotham city. Considering the many ways Gothamites could go? A heart attack was as good as any.
Batman landed on a shadowed corner of the GCPD rooftop with practiced ease, cape whispering against the cold concrete surface as he rose with mechanical grace. Robin—Damian— dogged at his heels.
Commissioner Gordon stood on the ledge across from his position, back turned to Batman in favor of watching the Gotham skyline. A plain manila envelope was tucked beneath his arm. The other, no doubt, was holding a styrofoam cup of scalding hot coffee. Black with two packets of Splenda mixed in.
Batman tilted his head to Robin, hands flickering through a couple of their signals.
You-package-retrieve-stealth.
Robin quirked an eyebrow, but much to his credit, didn't question it. He stepped around Batman and began to quietly make his way across the roof. Batman had no doubts that Robin would succeed— Gordon, no matter how many years passed, was still rather unperceptive when it came to knowing when a bat was there— that wasn't the point of this. It was, on one part, to see if Damian could follow directions, and for another, to test Damian's fluency on their hand signals. There were six variations that had been developed over the years, made with the express purpose of being blended together so that he and his partners could communicate silently and securely. The brief command he had given Robin then used signals from three different variations alone.
Robin returned, handing over the envelope. Batman unsealed it and pulled out a sheaf of documents, quickly scanning through its contents.
Katherine Nguyen, 45, female. Pronounced dead on the scene one week ago in her studio apartment located on the outskirts of the East End. The medical examiner on the case initially ruled the cause of death as a myocardial infarction, but the following autopsy revealed…
Ice?
The photo showed the heart nearly encased in a clear ice, with fractals creeping up the pulmonary arteries. The report also listed some bruising on the heart.
"Have you managed to get samples of this ice, Commissioner?"
Gordon nearly jumped out of his skin. "Jesus Christ!" He whipped around, eyes darting across the rooftop before spotting them in a shadowed corner by the door. He looked at the envelope, then to his empty arm, and sighed. "When in the hell are you gonna stop doing that?"
Batman grunted. He passed some of the documents to Robin who accepted them with a soft grunt.
"Forensics couldn't break the ice at all, much less get a sample. At this point, they're even doubting it is ice."
"Melting it?"
"Short of flambéing it, we've tried everything. It won't melt."
Dr. Freeze was still locked in Arkham at the present, so unless he's working with an associate, it wouldn't be him. A meta, then? His mind skimmed through his own mental database, quickly discarding all unlikely suspects. He'd have to double check back in the cave, but for the moment his list was worryingly bare.
"Her knuckles are bruised," Damian muttered, chin cradled between his fist. "But there are no other physical wounds on the body."
"Homicide Division's got dibs on this case so far but all their leads end up in dead ends. Ms. Nguyen over here? Not even sure if that's her real name. The guys downstairs found that her records only go back six months; before that, she's a veritable ghost. Whoever she was, she was running from something— and it found her."
"Anything else?" Batman said.
Gordon scoffed. "If only. No—" He shook his head. "We swept the place, looking for fingerprints or any clues that could point us at potential suspects. All in all, we found three." Batman flipped to the end of the folder. Three photos. Two men, another woman. "Michael Hobbs, Jack Anderson, and Maria Rivera. All presumed dead via heart attack. And all of them didn't exist in Gotham until six months ago."
Bruce leaned back into his chair, head cradled by his hand and supported by the arm rest as he took in all the information. The faint glow of the batcomputer's screen illuminated his face in a soft blue light. Organized to the right of the screen were all of the files concerning the death of Katherine Nguyen. To the left, the other three victims, arranged in chronological order by time of death.
Two men and two women. Perhaps it was only because of the small sample size, but statistically men were more likely to die of a heart attack than women, so having this even number was suspicious. All victims were between 26 and 45 years old, with Jack Anderson, the second victim, being the youngest, and Katherine Nguyen being the oldest. The ages themselves bring the legitimacy of these heart attacks into question. While certainly not impossible, all of the victims would have been far below the age range of being at risk of a heart attack— much less dying from it.
Of course the biggest clue that there was something strange afoot, other than the ice, was that four people in seemingly close acquaintance with each other, all died of the same disease in the same short span of time. Either it was the most unlucky of coincidences, or they had themselves part of a modus operandi for their killer.
The GCPD requested the bodies of Hobbs, Anderson, and Rivera be exhumed for investigation. The autopsy reports found evidence of bruising around the heart in all three victims, similar to Nguyen. It's like the hearts were crushed from the inside, but only Nguyen's heart contained the ice growth. What made her different, then?
Or—Bruce tapped his fingers against the arm rest—there was nothing different about her at all.
Assuming the perpetrator was a meta, this could be someone fairly new to their powers and was still prone to sudden lapses of control. He noted the possibility down on his computer.
"Your coffee, sir?" Alfred chimed, rolling in a stainless steel service cart. Atop it was a mug, a carafe of coffee, and a plate of shortbread biscuits.
"Thank you Alfred, that would be great." Alfred poured him a cup, brewed especially strong. Bruce accepted the mug when handed to him, hand cradling the bottom before shifting his grip to the handle. He leaned back in his chair, breathed in the rich aroma, and sighed.
"Another perplexing case, master Bruce?"
"Exactly so." He sipped the coffee, savoring its rich and bitter taste. "As much as I enjoy the concept of impossible murders in fiction, having to solve them in real life is frustrating."
"And what makes these murders so impossible?"
Bruce looked up at the monitor, walking himself through the entire case, using Alfred as a sounding board. "There were four murders in the past month— or, to be exact, three suspicious deaths and one murder. All of them John Does, all presumably connected, but by what, I've yet to figure out."
Bruce enlarged the three photos on the left. The pictures taken from their forged documents, all of them featuring stoic, rather plain looking, faces. "The first victim went by the name Michael Hobbs, 38, male, and was an office worker for SalTech Industries. No known enemies, though that's not surprising considering his records—and everyone else's— only go back six months. He was found by a coworker after Hobbs hadn't reported to the office in three days. Estimated time of death is February 3rd, four days before he was found. There was evidence of old injuries, but none recent enough to be pertinent to the incident. The apartment was clean, no signs of forced entry or a struggle."
"The second victim, found February 9th, went by Jack Anderson," Bruce continued. "Twenty-six years old, the youngest among the bunch, and worked an entry level job in a different company. Like Hobbs, no known enemies, records only went back six months, and the cause of death was determined to be a heart attack. Though judging by the autopsy, it's more likely our victims' hearts were squeezed to death. Found dead in his home with no signs of struggle or forced entry. It's the same story with Maria Rivera, 36, who worked as a bartender at the Red Door. Estimated date of death is February 15th."
Bruce paused, taking another sip of coffee. "She, or at least the Red Door, is one of the few connections I've found so far. I asked around the bar under the guise of Matches Malone and found that Hobbs, Anderson, and Nguyen were all frequent customers. Always there when Rivera was on the clock."
He pressed a few keys, bringing Nguyen's case files front and center. "And finally we have Katherine Nguyen, our only truly confirmed murder, so far. Forty-five years old, she had only died fifteen minutes before GCPD arrived at the scene. Cause of death is undecided, but it's between myocardial contusions as seen by the bruising on the heart, or the unusual ice growth. Forensics revealed that the only other people to enter her apartment within the last month were these three over here, and it was that evidence that brought our attention to these…series of deaths."
Alfred hummed. "I take it, then, that it is the heart that has been keeping our bioscanner busy."
Bruce nodded. Gordon had given him the heart to examine at Bruce's request. He had technology and resources that the GCPD didn't have at their disposal to detect the more… unconventional. If the ice was alien or, god forbid, magic, he would have a better chance at knowing.
As if on cue, the computer received an alert that the bioscan was complete.
After one more long sip of coffee, he placed the mug down onto the table, and opened the report. There was water in there, for sure, along with a multitude of minerals and substances the bioscanner could not identify.
Bruce narrowed his eyes. The scanner should be able to identify any kind of substance as long as it was native to earth or was recorded in the Justice League's database. Though the universe was indeed vast…this gap in his information was troubling.
His gaze stopped on a section of the report, jaw tightening. There, on the screen, the bioscanner detected components similar to that of a Lazarus Pit.
"Well," Alfred said. "This certainly narrows down the suspects."
More alerts flashed onto the screen. Two calls; one from Damian, the other from Tim.
"Computer, merge calls."
"B! I got something."
"Silence, Drake! I told you that I would be the one to inform my father."
Tim tutted at Damian. Bruce could already imagine Tim wagging his finger and Damian's offended expression. "Codenames only, Robin-Two." The relish in Tim's voice at the codename and Damian's angered response made Bruce sigh.
"It's not fair that you get to be Robin-One when I'm the blood son."
"Luck of the coin, demon brat. Your fault that you chose heads."
Bruce cleared his throat. "R-1, status report."
"Father!"
"Ha! Suck it!"
You know, it wasn't very long ago that Bruce only had one child to worry about.
"R-1, stop antagonizing your partner, he's eleven. R-2, you know the chain of command and you know that R-1 was appointed to lead this mission." He sighed, glancing at Alfred with a long-suffering look. "Now, status report, please."
Finally managing to comport themselves to some level of professionalism, R-1 reported his findings. "We went to the addresses of all four victims and swept their places for any kind of evidence, like you asked. While we didn't find anything relating to our killer, we did find some interesting dirt on our victims. Here, I'll send you a photo now."
It was a throwing star. Made of gray metal and designed similar to a cardinal compass with a circular base and four points jutting out from it.
"It's a League of Assassins star," Damian said. Huh, wasn't this deja vu?
"We found more of these throwing stars as well as other weapon caches in all four houses," Tim continued. "This Kira-impersonator seems to have a thing against the al Ghuls."
"Kira?"
"What, never watched Death Note?"
The victims were all members of the League of Assassins…but judging from the ice, so was their killer.
They've established their definitive link, but they still hadn't deduced the killer, the motive, nor the method of the crime. But still, it was a start.
"You did great work, boys. Head back to base when you're ready."
"Roger that, B! R-1, out."
"Wait, R-2."
"Yes, father?"
Bruce leaned forward, elbows on the table, his chin cradled by his clasped hands. He had a theory in mind, but he needed confirmation. "What happens to people who defect from the League of Assassins?"
"Simple: death. No one leaves the League without permission, and those that do have their lives forfeit."
A possible motive. He would need to dig around more.
"Thank you."
"Of course. Robin, signing out."
It turned out, all Bruce needed was a larger sample size.
With enough time, too little sleep, and one coffee refill too many, Bruce was able to cross-reference enough databases around the world to compile a list of deaths that matched the modus operandi of their assassin. The list was unexpectedly both too short and too long, listing thirty one names of suspected or confirmed members of the League of Assassins. He corroborated with Damian to make sure he got the most accurate information possible.
"Some of these names belong to some of the best assassins the League ever trained. Others are powerful leaders who were once under grandfather's influence; they would be heavily protected, especially since…" Damian's lips thinned. "Whoever this assassin is, they're good."
The incidents began happening half a year ago, with the first victim being a weapons manufacturer who died of a heart attack in his yacht just off the coast of Greece. A little digging revealed that he had frequent dealings with Deathstroke in the past. That connection, among other things, helped click the puzzle pieces into place.
Almost all the victims were defectors. Splinter cells that formed in the wake of Ra's al Ghul's death and Deathstroke's failed coup last year.
Talia, after that entire fiasco ended, declared her intent to rebuild the League after it had fractured. It would make sense that she would make it a priority to root out any possible snakes in her garden. The dangers of the mission were probably what softened her to the idea of letting Damian stay with him. No matter how capable his son was, Damian, as the next heir to the League, was too tempting of a target.
Bruce won't lie, no matter the expectations the word assassin might give, he expected something a bit more…theatrical. Some grand spectacle of death to show others what fate awaits those who betray the League of Assassins.
Though perhaps this was the spectacle. It would certainly be terrifying in its own right, to know that Talia had an agent—or agents, so as to not discount every possibility— that can intrude anywhere undetected and kill without a trace. A silent death that seemed impossible to anticipate.
Discussions with Tim and Damian also led him to suspect one other thing that set Nguyen's murder apart: she fought her attacker.
While the disarray in Nguyen's apartment could be contributed to her struggling from a heart attack, the knowledge of this being a murder, the bruising on her knuckles, and evidence of a head injury close to the time of death told a different story. Her allies were being picked off one by one. It would be safe to assume that she anticipated the assassin to visit her next and either chose to confront them or made preparations to get out of Gotham as quickly as possible.
Either way, the assassin found her.
If Bruce were to throw in his theory about the assassin being a fledgeling meta, then he'd hazard a guess that Nguyen fighting back made the meta panic or lose enough control to unleash their cryokinetic abilities.
There was, as always, one problem.
One piece that did not fit perfectly into the puzzle.
The twenty-fourth victim, as far as Bruce could tell, had no connections to the League of Assassins. Yet it was his case that was the most similar to Nguyen's: An unexplained heart attack in a locked room; the strange presence of ice that would not melt.
What part did a prisoner in Belle Reve have to play in this mess?
Frederick Isaak Showenhower. The odd one out. His death indicated that either Talia had a reason to want him dead…or whatever agent Talia had at her disposal had a vendetta to settle.
If Bruce could figure out why Showenhower was killed, perhaps it would lead him to his assassin.
A/N:
The Two Robins: Arguably the biggest change I've made to the Batman continuity is that Tim Drake still isn't Red Robin. Why? It's because when I was trying to timeline this story I realized that there was way too little time for the events of Batman: Battle for the Cowl (and the events preceding it) to happen while being consistent with PC:R's timeline, and instead of just ignoring the inconsistency...I thought too much about it. So since Batman never 'died,' Dick never became Batman, never chose Damian to be his Robin over Tim, and Tim didn't have a reason to go out and become Red Robin (...yet). Currently, neither Damian nor Tim are willing to give up on the Robin mantle, so they've just resorted to sharing it.