The coroner's report was sitting on Allen's desk when he came in the next morning. He hadn't been expecting it, but he wasn't one to complain.

Snatching it up from his desk, Allen opened the file and began reading the pages contained within. Trauma to face, body…no signs of internal organ rupture, he silently read. Hematomas to face, head—weren't those the same thing?extremities, and torso…fractures to extremities, face…

Damn, based off of that assessment alone, it confirmed to Allen that Fairchild's last moments were not good ones. She was beaten so badly, her body was damn near broken. The bastard that did this belonged in Hell.

Good thing he already had a suspect.

It was probably because of the location of the murder and the man involved that the report was completed so quickly. No doubt there would be pressure to find out who killed a woman in Bruce Wayne's personal office. He had the connections to apply pressure without having to do so himself; people just did that automatically. The coroner must have done an all-nighter to get it done.

Bullet wounds to torso, entry wounds to back, exit wounds out of chest and breasts…damage to lungs and heart…cause of death was gunshots. So Fairchild bled out while choking on her own blood. That did not sound pleasant. Though one would assume her choking involved something in the throat, her lungs would be filling up with blood, preventing oxygen from going into the rest of her body. It would cause the body to think it was drowning and send signals to the brain that it was oxygen-deprived. Again, not a fun way to die.

Placing the file down, he saw a few more files. Apparently the entire Forensics team had done an all-nighter. Taking his coat off, he hung it on the back of his chair before he took a seat in it. Picking up the next folder, he found it to be the ballistics report. Reading it, it confirmed what they thought happened, the shooter standing behind Fairchild as she laid on the floor. Each bullet wound was approximately the same distance from each other, so the suspect knew how to shoot. The bullets found in the floor were also a match for the .45 ACP Colt Commander, so they definitely had their murder weapon.

And then there was the audio recording…

"Good morning." Tearing his eyes away from the report, Allen saw Montoya taking a seat at the desk across from his.

"It most definitely is," Allen said. "We got all of our reports."

"That was quick," the Hispnaic woman commented. "What did they say?"

"In a word: brutal. Fairchild was beat the hell out of before being shot. She basically bled out. The ballistics report confirms that the gun we found is indeed the murder weapon."

"That's good. Was there any evidence on the gun to link a suspect?"

That was a good question. Allen looked back at the ballistics report, but didn't find any section indicated if fingerprints were found. Of course, he did have a pile of reports here…

Setting down ballistics, he checked each of the files before finding the fingerprint report just beneath a file containing Fairchild's phone records. He definitely wanted to look through that one. Pulling the fingerprint report out, he began skimming it. Every member of the GCPD would have had their prints recorded so that they could be accounted for. Once those were removed, Bruce Wayne's prints were found all over the place, including some unknowns.

They were going to need to cross-check these unknowns. That must have made this report a preliminary report rather than the file. Someone was jumping the gun it seemed.

Skipping entire sections, Allen eventually found a small section for the Colt Commander. Fingerprints found on gun…all one set…positive identification…

Allen smirked. "We got ourselves a suspect."

Montoya perked up at that, which caused the detective to lean forward and hold the fingerprint analysis towards her, which she took. She did just like he did and skimmed through it until she found the section on the gun. "Dios mio," she murmured.

Yeah, Dear God was right. However, they did have some loose ends to tie up before they made their move. "Do we have a log of what items we picked up?" he asked.

Montoya tore her eyes away from the report, glancing to her desk. She seemed to search for a moment before she set down the fingerprint analysis and picked up a new file. "Looks like we do." She opened it. "What am I looking for?"

"Remember from the tape, we saw those two people entering Wayne Enterprises and heading for the office? I want to see if there were any coats logged in," Allen answered her.

The detective read the file, flipping to another page. "Here's what we picked up," she read out loud. "Smartphone…two coats, one male, one female—"

"Do we have an ID on ownership?" Allen questioned.

Montoya flipped a couple of pages before stopping. "We have proof of ownership on both. One belongs to Fairchild and the other Wayne."

The plot was thickening. "So we potentially have Wayne and Fairchild entering the office, but only one of them comes out obviously."

"Sounds like a Thunderdome situation."

Allen smirked. His partner clearly caught the reference. "Do we have witness statements yet?" he asked.

"They should be around here somewhere," Montoya replied. "We should have the ones from Wayne Enterprises already, though I'm not certain about the canvassing that was done at Fairchild's apartment and work."

"We can worry about those later," Allen said. "What we need is for the ones that found Fairchild's body—Wayne, Fox, and their assistants. We only asked questions surrounding the discovery of the body, but not anything prior to it. We need to get complete statements on the relationship between Wayne Enterprises and Vesper Fairchild."

"Of course. I'll make the calls if you want."

"Much appreciated. I definitely want Bruce Wayne to come. These corporate guys have a tendency to weasel their way out of these things, so if we can get him here, the better. And if his reputation is anything to go by, he may be just dumb enough to come."


Harper collapsed onto her couch. It wasn't from fatigue, or anything like that. No, she was irritated. Irritated at the world, at the people around her—

At freaking Batgirl.

There she was, doing her job in turning on the computer and what does that bitch do? Threaten to shut down the Batclan just as it was getting back onto its feet. Where the hell had that come from? And then she had the gall to put all the blame on her.

Batgirl was so damn lucky that she didn't get tased then and there.

She wasn't a novice. She had been doing this awhile now, both her and Stephanie. In fact, she had come to them about restarting the Batclan. Game recognizes game after all, and it was clear she recognized theirs.

What made Batgirl think she was the boss anyway? If it wasn't for that damn Bat Symbol on her chest, who the hell was she? Oh, only the freaking daughter of the richest guy in town. She was the spoiled brat here, not her. Harper didn't have a dad that gave her her own freaking Batcave on a whim.

Tucking her arms behind her head on the armrest, Harper glared holes into the ceiling. One of her legs was bent at the knee, which left the foot of her other leg to tap irritatingly. Her foot wasn't touching anything, so it looked as if it were wagging back and forth in the air.

Which is how Cullin found her. "Who pissed in your Cheerios?" he asked her as he pulled his arms out from beneath the straps of his backpack. He lowered the bag to floor, right next to Harper's, which had been tossed there right before she dumped herself onto their shared couch.

"Not the time, Cullin," she groused.

"I'd rather not watch you stew about what some prissy girl at school told you," her brother replied. "So spill, or I'm getting the bucket."

The bucket, in this case, was just that, except it was usually filled with water and a crap ton of ice. One time when Harper had been in a mood, Cullin had gone and filled a bucket full of ice water and dumped it on her. After she had gotten done sputtering from the near-drowning, she had demanded to know what the hell he was doing. He had told her he wanted her to cool off so they could talk.

If he hadn't been her brother and was getting picked on by the neighborhood bullies at the time, she would have given him a second black eye.

Now though, all it took was referencing that incident to get to the heart of the matter. Cullin didn't use it all of the time, especially when shit got real, but when it was something that he thought was petty…well, he had a tendency to be right.

Except this time.

"So get this," Harper started, not bothering to look at her bro as he dragged a chair from the kitchen into their living room. "Batgirl has us go investigate that dead reporter, Fairchild."

"The one they found in Wayne Enterprises?" Cullin inquired.

"The same. While there, we're doing our thing. I'm at the computer, Steph looking around, Batgirl is looking around, and then out of the blue, the girl snaps at me. Just flat out tells me to lose my attitude or she'll shut the Batclan down. Like, what the hell?"

"That…seems extreme," the blue-haired boy remarked.

"Right? I mean, what the hell!"

"You said that already."

"Because it bears repeating."

"Well, what led up to that? There has to be more to this than just her threatening you."

Of course Cullin just couldn't agree that Batgirl was being a bitch. He wanted more details, not that there weren't many. "We were just investigating things, you know? Steph and I were talking and Bat-bitch told us to shut up."

"And then she threatened to disband you guys if you talked?"

"No, that came later. I was just sitting at the desk, waiting for her to come check out what I found and she just blew up at me."

Cullin just stared at her. "Was this a "waiting for permission to speak" thing, or a 'malicious compliance' thing?"

Harper rolled her eyes. "I was doing what I was told to do, that's all."

"So the second one," he surmised. "Harper, I love ya, but you do realize you're not going to win against a Bat, right?"

"Who said this was about winning anything?"

"You did the moment you started the malicious compliance. You've been complaining nonstop about how Batgirl has been keeping you away from the streets and then you cop an attitude when she gives you orders."

Harper glared at her brother. "I did not cop an attitude."

"You're copping one now," he pointed out. "And I imagine you did the same thing last night and Batgirl didn't take your shit."

"Oh, so now you're on her side now."

"Hey, I'm always on yours, but that doesn't mean I can't see through your own bullshit."

Harper pouted, then looked back up at the ceiling. She wasn't scowling though.

"I know you've been frustrated the last few months, but you have to realize that you just jumped into the deep end with Batgirl. This is a girl that got her expectations from Batman, who is the best of the best of the best, Sir!" Heh, nice MIB reference. "So of course she's going to bring those same expectations to you and Steph. It's like you guys went from the minor leagues to the big leagues overnight."

That was a good way to put things. Batgirl did come from working with Batman and knew how to do an investigation. Batman probably did things a specific way and Batgirl wanted to copy that.

"She could have said that to begin with," she mumbled.

Cullin heard her regardless of how low she spoke. "While at the scene? What if someone heard you?"

Ah, right, that was probably what Batgirl was getting at last night. She didn't want anyone to know they were there, and she and Steph were talking. They weren't loud, but they weren't quiet either. Yet, Batgirl hadn't shushed them like that when they did that investigation into Caldwell Tech, when the Iceman went and stole a bunch of tech.

Then again, that was a big storage room and they were in an apartment with potentially thin walls. Goddamn it, was she actually agreeing with her jerk brother and the jerk Batgirl?

Yeah, yeah she was.

"You know I hate you right now."

"I love you too, Harper."


Carefully, Barbara squeezed the end of the pipette, a small drop of blood budding at the end before falling off and into a vial. The drop mixed into a solution, coloring it red. Setting down the pipette and caping the vial, she then set it into a little machine that held five others. She then flipped down a lid, clicking it into place, and then hit a button. The vials began spinning around in a circle at a fast rate, becoming a blur as a whirring sound filled the air.

Barbara had been at this for a year, but was now on her blood rotation, meaning blood spatter analysis. Ever since she was hired on, she had been going through every specialty of Forensics, trying to find that one area she could fall in love with.

So far she had liked everything. That was making a specialty difficult.

Of course, as she did her blood spatter rotation, the biggest case ever had to come through. The Fairchild murder was sidelining a lot of cases, but the higher-ups wanted it to be their primary focus. Right now, she was running blood tests, trying to see if any of the samples didn't match. She was on her third set, the first two coming back as matches for the same DNA.

Honestly, this was the nuts and bolts of lab work, the boring stuff. Ballistics had completed their end of things by IDing the murder weapon as the gun found on scene. Fingerprint had dusted everything to find prints; they were still in the process of getting IDs on every set they had found, which was a lot.

Other techs were going about their business too, but what exactly they were doing, Barbara didn't know and couldn't know. Her job was to do the blood, at least one side of it. Her superior was out in the field doing a blood spatter analysis.

Seeing as her wheelchair wouldn't make preserving a crime scene a primary concern, she was left in the lab to run tests on whatever was brought back. The initial blood samples had already been run and she was on the third set. So far, everything was coming back as Vesper Fairchild.

She wouldn't be done until she checked every last drop.

Of course, when a bunch of the tests were dependent on machines, there wasn't much she could do. Staring at the mixer in front of her, she was wondering how long she was going to have to wait while her ears begged her for noise-canceling earphones.

Yeah, the sound was getting to her. Too bad they couldn't afford a quieter model.

It was because of the noise she didn't hear the knock.

She did feel the hand on her shoulder though.

Jolting in her chair, Barbara snapped her head to one side, and then promptly smiled. There, looming over her, was the unchangeable, always disheveled, Harvey Bullock. There was a smirk on his face, a knowing glint in his eye.

Thankfully, the mixer stopped, reaching the automatic timer that had been set. "Harvey!" Barbara exclaimed. "I haven't seen you in awhile."

"How's my favorite lab rat doing?" Bullock replied.

"Keeping busy. The bosses are breathing down our necks at the moment."

"So I heard. Yous handling this okay?"

Barbara shrugged her shoulders. "I wouldn't mind going out into the field, but you know, crime scenes aren't handicap accessible."

The detective grunted. "Hopefully you guys find something. It's never easy when it's a high profile case."

"We seem to be doing fine. Since everyone is having to focus on one case, we've gotten a lot done."

"Just goes to show ya that we got too much crime on our hands. If only them crooks actually waited for us to finish with our caseload before doing something dumb."

This was small talk and probably one of the few that Barbara actually enjoyed. Because of her connection with the previous commissioner, a lot of people spoke with her while keeping her at arm's length. It was like they were expecting her to snitch to someone with actual authority—or at least some perceived authority. It was rather lonely to be honest.

Thankfully, Bullock hadn't let that stop him. He had a reputation for not being friendly with the lab techs, but it was pretty clear he had a soft spot for the redhead. It gave her someone to talk to when there wasn't much going on.

"Well, bad guys never did keep our schedules in mind," Barbara quipped back. It was a common refrain she heard her dad use on many occasions, especially when he had tried to spend time with her, but was called in.

"Ain't that the truth," Bullock grumbled. "Tell me somethin', yous has any plans for lunch? I'm trying to get something going with the old gang. Your pops ain't here, so that leaves you, me, the rook, and the new Com'mish if she's up for it."

"I've got no plans," Barbara replied. "You think you can get the others?"

"Maybe not Sawyer, but I should be able to pry Montoya from Allen. He likes to do some solo work every so often."

Yeah, and they were the current stars of the biggest case ever. No doubt Montoya would ask her how things are going on in the lab. It was definitely a good idea to tell her where things stood so that she wasn't surprised, or could give Detective Allen a head's up.

After all, if she was having trouble making friends in the lab, there wasn't a law saying she couldn't make any in the bullpen.


Bruce had received the call from the GCPD. Apparently they wanted to go over his statement again, fill in the blanks so to speak. He wasn't certain what that entailed since he had told the officers at the scene everything.

Seeing as this involved Vesper, he might as well help any way he could, even if that meant talking to the police over and over.

So he showed up to the precinct as requested. He was led to an interrogation room for privacy, which made sense since this was a big case. Still, there was something unnerving about sitting in a room with a large window on one side and only a table and chairs for company.

This led Bruce to believe there was a break in the case. If this was as simple as clearing up a few details, it could have been done at the lead detective's desk. It would only take a couple minutes and that would be it.

What could it be though? When he visited the GCPD last night, he found the forensics lab working diligently. No reports had been filed or uploaded to a server. He would have stayed had he not overheard the dispatcher receiving a call about a crime-in-progress. He very well couldn't let that go unpunished and the GCPD wasn't going anywhere.

The door to the interrogation room opened and a dark-skinned man entered. If he recalled correctly, this was Detective Cris Allen. He did solid work from what he had seen, a good choice to lead this case.

"Mr. Bruce Wayne," the detective greeted him as he carried a few folders with him. He allowed the door to close behind him before he walked over to the billionaire, holding out his free hand. Bruce stood up and accepted the hand, shaking it firmly. "I'm glad you were able to meet with me."

"Anything to help with Vesper," he replied. "I'm hoping you've made some progress."

"We certainly have, but I have some areas I hope you can help clear up." Det. Allen moved to the other side of the table, setting the folders down before taking a seat. Bruce followed his lead.

"I hope I can help you out," he replied.

Allen opened the top folder, several sheets of paper contained within. "So, can you tell me how well you knew Ms. Fairchild? I just want to establish your relationship with her so I can better understand how she came to be in your office."

That seemed reasonable. "It was a working relationship, nothing personal," the dark-haired man answered.

"How did you meet?"

"Ms. Fairchild hounded me for an interview. Most reporters do that, but she was rather tenacious. I agreed and we did one on the air."

Allen jotted that down. "I think I recall that interview. It got a little heated, wouldn't you say?"

It was hard to deny that. "It was full of gotcha moments, hardly good journalism. I can't say that I was too pleased with it."

"I imagine not." The detective didn't seem amused. "Would one consider your two butting heads?"

"At first perhaps. Vesper went out of her way to fix things, at the risk of her own career."

"What do you mean 'at the risk'?"

"She did a number of pieces that put Wayne Enterprises in a good light. According to her, she was developing a reputation for being in my pocket."

"So she was trying to buy herself back into your good graces."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I don't see what this has to do with her getting murdered."

Allen stared at him before he flipped through a few pages in his file. "According to a Walt Jennings, you two were having a verbal altercation following your interview."

Bruce had to resist the urge to grimace at that name. What was it with that family getting under his skin? First the brother helped usurp him from his company and now this one was painting him in a poor light with the police. It seemed he had another Jennings to put into their place. "I wasn't happy after the interview, I freely admit that. Perhaps things got a little heated."

"I'll say. Apparently you were threatening her job?"

Bruce stared at Allen. "What does this have to do with Vesper's murder?"

Allen held his pen in his hand, tapping the bottom of it on the table as he continued to coolly gaze at the billionaire. "Considering we have video footage of the two of you entering the building at an unusual hour and going into your office, I would say quite a deal."

What? Bruce frowned at this. What the hell was Allen talking about? He hadn't been at Wayne Enterprises that night. He sure as hell hadn't been with Vesper either. "I wasn't at my office," he protested. "I was supposed to meet Vesper early that night for a party. She sent me a text saying to meet her there and never showed up."

"I did see that," Allen admitted as he closed the file he had opened. He then pulled out another one from beneath the manilla folder and opened it. From where Bruce sat, he could have sworn he saw a phone carrier logo at the top; were those phone logs? "And I saw another set of text messages from the two of you establishing a time to meet up that night."

Alright, what the hell was going on? Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, turning it on and opening the text app. He then found the one with Vesper and showed it to the detective. "The last text I have is her rescheduling with me."

"So you do. Doesn't mean you didn't delete the others," he pointed out.

That…was a good point, even if it wasn't true. A sinking feeling was welling up within his stomach.

"Another thing about Vesper's phone, when she was in your office, she managed to turn on the audio recording app." Allen reached into a pocket and pulled out a recorder, his thumb resting on one of the many buttons on it. "Know what was on it?"

Numbly, Bruce shook his head. "You sure? How about I refresh your memory," Allen spoke before he pushed the play button.

"No…no please…"

That voice, Vesper!

There was the sound of something breaking, something crashing into something else. "Gyaahhhh! Oh God!" she screamed. "Someone! Help me!"

More sounds, more crashing sounds. "Please…stop this…I…I don't understand…"

A pause. "No…Oh, please God know. Don't…don't shoot me…Please…I…I want to live….please…I don't understand."

There were heavy footsteps. "Let…let me live…please, let me live. I want to—"

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

A moment later, Allen hit the stop button. He stared at the dark-haired man, an aghast look on his face. "Horrific, I know," the detective said gently. "We found the murder weapon, you know. I think you know exactly what it is."

Bruce knew what that sinking feeling was now. All of this, the interrogation room, the recording; this was all going to one place. Why else share these details with him?

"The gun used was a .45 ACP Colt Commander Gold Cup edition." Allen paused, staring right at him. "One registered to Thomas Wayne, your father."

That jolted him out of his stupor. "Are you saying—"

"That the person beating the hell out of Vesper Fairchild and then shot her dead with his father's custom-made gun was you? Absolutely." Allen leaned forward in his seat, placing his hands on the table. "You have an admittingly poor relationship with the deceased; you had her meet with you in your office late at night, damn near the morning; and then you used a gun to kill her."

"That isn't what happened!"

"It isn't? Then why is it your fingerprints are the only ones on the gun? Why did we find both your coat and Fairchild's in your office?" By now, Allen was standing up, hands still pressed down onto the table. "Care to explain that, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce was glaring now. "I…wasn't…there," he gritted through his teeth.

"You weren't? Then where were you, Mr. Wayne? What kind of alibi do you have?"

Oh, he had an alibi. There was just one problem: he was Batman at that time. He very well couldn't say that. He couldn't come up with another story either because he couldn't risk someone claiming otherwise.

He was effectively between a rock and a hard place.

So he said the only thing that he could. "I want my lawyer."

"The first smart thing you've done all day," Allen told him. He then reached behind his back before he pulled out a set of handcuffs. "You can call him after I've processed you for the first degree murder of Vesper Fairchild."


A quick note: some of the dialogue used for the audio recording comes right from the Bruce Wayne: Murderer? comic. I changed a few lines, but largely left them intact.