For Laughs - Batman/Criminal Minds - Chapter 6 - 7/17
Title: For Laughs
Fandom: Batman (Nolan universe, mostly)/Criminal Minds
Links: Prologue + Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5
Rating: T (overall), but ventures into M
Warnings: Joker-level violence, serial killer activities
Summary: If the BAU wants to catch the Joker, they'll need to profile the Batman. But will all of the team survive to close the case? Gen fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.
Chapter 6
The Gambler
The officers before them looked as exhausted as the team felt, but Hotch had the feeling that they were running on plenty of sleep. It was the information itself that was draining the life from their faces. At first slightly curious as to what specially trained FBI agents would have to say about a man who had wrecked havoc on their city, the officers of the Major Crimes Unit now appeared pessimistic, hopeless. One too many pictures of posed victims would do that to a cop.
However, the sarcasm and doubt had left the dialogue. No questions were asked as they took in the profile Hotch spouted.
"…And we believe the Joker may have left us the identify of this man. Victor Zsasz, previous employee of the Falcone crime family. Zsasz has remained at large since the Arkham Asylum riots, and we believe that he may have returned to Gotham recently."
"Do we know for sure it's Zsasz?" Detective Stephens asked. "How do we know this isn't just the Joker jerking our chain?"
"As for the identity, we can't be sure until the lab returns the DNA results," Hotch answered. "However, based on Zsasz's past crimes and the manner in which Abby Greene and Marie Simmons were murdered and displayed, the profile suggests that Zsasz committed these crimes."
"Jerking our chain," Gideon muttered. He shrugged, the simple gesture catching the eyes of the entire room. "The Joker is doing just that, Detective Stephens, but that in no way suggests that he's presented the wrong identity." The older agent rose from where he was propped against one desk, taking the chance to stare at the board behind him with something akin to awe on his face. "On the contrary, Detective. The Joker is a narcissist. He's proud of what he has done. Somehow he is linked to Zsasz's recent crimes, and he wants us to know that, which is why the cards were planted in our rooms. 'Look at me,' he's saying, 'I have the power to create chaos without lifting a finger. Catching me will not stop the bloodshed.' His message is directed at us, but he'll direct it at the city soon enough. Panic will spread, and as soon as it does, we will lose what little control we have over the situation. We need to apprehend the Joker and Zsasz before that happens."
Hotch stared at Gideon for a fleeting moment before he wrapped up the profile and dismissed the group. He nodded to Detective Stevens, speaking to the man briefly before walking back to his team. Commissioner Gordon remained behind, a small distance between him and the agents, as if he were simply there to observe.
"Hotch, how are we prioritizing?" Morgan deadpanned.
Aaron raised a brow. "We're not."
Morgan's brow wrinkled in confusion, but Prentiss leaned forward in anticipation. "Divide and conquer?" she guessed.
Hotch's reply was a curt nod. "Morgan, Prentiss, I just spoke to Detective Stephens. He interviewed an officer whose late partner had been a part of Zsasz's initial arrest. We already know that Victor Zsasz was born to a wealthy family and squandered his trust fund after developing a taste for gambling. This was how he became employed by Falcone in the first place. If we're correct and he has recently returned to Gotham…"
"Old habits die hard," Morgan finished. "We know anything about this past haunts?"
"Unfortunately, Gotham City has seen its fair share of illegal gambling rings, however, Detective Stephen's information has narrowed down the list." Hotch paused for a breath. "Abby Greene was a waitress at The Strand Fish Market. The second victim, Marie "Taffy" Simmons had been arrested for solicitation nearly a month ago near the Gotham City East Docks. According to Stephens, there's rumor that The Strand hosts a backroom card game."
"But Marie's body wasn't found near the docks," Prentiss noted.
Hotch nodded. "Garcia said the other prostitutes were found on their favorite blocks. Marie Simmons was found near the southern end of the harbor, instead. We know she wasn't killed there, though. Which is why we suspect he might have posed her elsewhere, to keep us away from his comfort zone."
"You want us to check out The Strand?" Morgan asked.
"It's doubtful that there will be any activity this early in the day, but I want you and Prentiss to look the area over," Hotch replied. "If Zsasz is comfortable in the area, there's the possibility that he's staying nearby."
Hotch turned from the two agents, mouth half open in a question for Gordon, but the commissioner had disappeared from the room. Shaking his head, the agent turned back to the rest of the team, glad to see that Prentiss and Morgan were already preparing to leave.
"Jason, could you contact the director of Arkham Asylum? Carmine Falcone is still an inmate in the facility. Victor Zsasz has been working for him for years, so there's the possibility he might know more about Zsasz's favorite hang outs." Hotch balanced his hands on his waist. "If The Strand proves fruitless, we may need to interview Falcone."
Gideon cleared his throat. "It may be better for you to do so."
Hotch raised a brow. "Why's that?"
"Dr. Thomas and I don't see eye to eye. I think he'd be resistant to the idea of an interview."
Hotch absorbed the answer a moment, sharing a puzzled glance with the older agent before realizing he had no time for the discussion. "I'll call," he said, and stepped away.
Reid watched Gideon move to the board and stood to follow him. Elbow to elbow, Reid realized there was no subtle way to ask the question that was on his mind.
"Why were you so aggressive towards Dr. Thomas during our visit to Arkham?"
Gideon snorted, amused. Reid relinquished an abashed grin. Of course, there was an obvious answer: Dr. Thomas didn't know how to do his job very well. Still, Gideon had faced more incompetent men before and conducted himself more gracefully. So, Reid waited for a proper reply.
"I mentioned the missed interviews at Arkham?" Gideon asked.
Reid nodded in confirmation.
Gideon flared his nostril, distressed by the information on the board. He studied it a few seconds more before opening his mouth again. "A few months ago," he finally began, "not long after the Joker had been captured, I filed for an interview with Arkham Asylum. Instead of permission, I was given layer upon layer of red tape. Cases came up at the BAU, and the interview was never given." He smiled sadly at up at Reid. "I am left to wonder what I might have learned in that interview. Was there some sign of what the Joker was planning? It bothers me immensely. Because I know there probably was something I could have done to stop this madman from escaping."
"It's not your fault," Reid insisted.
Gideon nodded. "Not entirely. Though I should have been more insistent. But Dr. Thomas is at fault. As is the administrator, Dr. Arkham. If we had been allowed to do our jobs then, we wouldn't have to do them now."
Reid licked his bottom lip. "Sir Isaac Newton said, 'I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people.' I think Dr. Thomas, as much as it counters his field of study, shares this philosophy. He didn't see what we could learn from the Joker, what we could prevent." Spencer pocketed his nervous hands and shrugged his shoulders, almost too abashed to finish his statement. To counter a man he recognized as his hero.
"Still," Reid continued, his voice at a near whisper, "in the end, he's not…that's to say, neither Arkham nor Thomas… are at fault for what's happened, Gideon. The Joker's is. The unsub. Isn't that what you're always telling me?"
The SUV crawled over cracked blacktop, coming to a stop at the dead center of the empty parking lot of The Strand Fish Market. Though, for the rest of Gotham, it was lunch, the market was surprisingly quiet, only a light blue pick-up, loaded down with crates, remained in front of the building, and, from the layer of grime over its hood, Morgan had serious doubts that the vehicle even worked.
"Okay, you were in the harbor earlier, right?" Morgan began. "It always this lively?"
"Different place," Emily noted, frowning at the building. "Looks like the East Docks have seen better days. Are they even in use?"
Judging from the lack of luxury boats and yachts in the dock, she had to guess the answer was no.
"Sure they are," Morgan countered. "By prostitutes, drug dealers, and the mob."
The agents approached the building at a matched stride, their eyes roaming the windows of The Strand for signs of life. The market itself was narrow, its two floors appearing taller than they should have, the wooden piers behind the restaurant too rickety to host an outside dining area. Its sign was red and blue and chipping from every flat surface, much like the rest of the building, and though tourists were likely to see such details as local charm, the view from The Strand Fish Market was anything but colorful.
A few hundred yards behind The Strand were two long barges rounded down with scrap metal in preparation for a tow.
Morgan came to a stop before he ever reached the front doors of the restaurant, shaking his head. He turned, facing the parking lot. The docks were even less appealing from this angle, the gray backside of an old factory bearing the painted logo of a boat company that hadn't been in business in twenty years stood, shaking against the strong winter wind as if one more gust might push it out into the water. It was in the barely-existent loop of streets, between the docks and old buildings, that was where the danger remained, even in the daylight. As bright as midday should have been, the entire area was cast in gloomy shadow, disturbed only by the movement of birds picking over a fisherman's loss. The only other sign of life was a homeless man, dark skin and white hair apparent even in the distance, in a bundle of brown cloth, shuffling to stuff himself with newspaper insulation before he pushed past an opening in the factory's aluminum siding. Morgan wasn't deceived by the apparent lack of activity, though. He knew what sort of things so often lurked just beyond the light of day.
Prentiss had stopped to study the opening times for the market. Morgan shot her a glance. "He's not there."
Emily raised a brow.
Morgan nodded at the factory. "If I was looking to hang low…"
He paused, hearing a high noise in the distance. It took him a moment to realize it was a scream. As soon it registered, his feet moved of their own accord toward the street. He ran along the length of the factory, boots kicking up the random weed that had managed to grow through the pavement. Another scream.
His long legs pumped the air, nearly sending him sliding into the corner of the building in his hast to pull his Colt free from its holster. A rational thought found its way in, and he slowed, checking for danger before rounding to the next side of the building. Prentiss's shoes clicked the ground behind him.
The screamer was alive but blood stained her fingertips. Morgan caught sight of her laying on the ground, collapsed onto a cardboard home that was, thankfully, unoccupied. In her yellowed fur coat and trembling state, she looked almost like a wounded animal. Past her was a running form in a hoodie and long gray coat. The figure paused at the end of the passage way, glancing over his shoulder for one last glimpse of his pursuer. Morgan could see the silhouette of his face, the distinct cut of his mustache and beard. An eight inch knife dangled from one gloved hand. The proof was enough for Morgan's gut: Zsasz. It had to be Victor Zsasz.
Of all the dumb luck.
"Zombie," the woman hissed, frantic to pull herself out of the box, her green mini skirt riding up her netted hose. Her voice rose to the point of hysterics. "I'm not a zombie. I'm not!"
Could the unsub heard the words? Understand them? There was the tiniest hint of a grin on Zsasz's face before he raced away.
"F.B.I! Freeze!" Morgan spouted. His fingers wanted to squeeze off a round, but his brain won. He ran to the woman, instead, stooping down just long enough to see that her injuries weren't critical. Zsasz disappeared around the next corner, headed toward what had to be the front of the building.
"Prentiss," Morgan snapped, "take her. I'm going after Zsasz."
If Emily had other plans, Morgan didn't stick around to hear about them. The dead run wouldn't make up for the minute head start Zsasz had. In the back of his head, Morgan knew this. He also knew that the unsub knew the terrain, was armed, was teasing the agent on his tail. But Morgan didn't care. This guy was working with the Joker. They were playing games with his team. It had to end.
Derek wouldn't stop, not until he had his cuffs behind Zsasz's back, damn it.
Morgan found himself at an opening, an over-sized garage door raised to half its height, at least ten feet. The thin chain that had kept it secured to the ground was abandoned in a mound. The space inside the building was wide, an assembly area of sorts, a long metal frame cupping air instead of a disassembled ship's hull sat to one side. Boat engines hung from cranks, their more valuable parts no doubt taken by vagrants years ago. Cracked fiberglass, piping, it was all that remained on the permanently oil-stained cement ground floor, the welding tools of long past either removed or stolen. The building, though, was two, maybe three, storys tall, and this area was only a portion of it. His eyes scanned the doorless shadows of openings at the back. Offices, supplies closets, bathrooms, Morgan wasn't sure. He took a step inside, caution causing him to hesitate. The snap of metal on metal made him raise his weapon. A scaffold stretched along high walls and then across the open air, connecting one side to the other. Only the center bridge was fully lit by the gray daylight leaking in through the huge garage door behind. A blackened office remained high above, and an exit, likely into another large work chamber of the factory. But it didn't interest the agent. What did interest him was the slight sway of the center scaffold.
Morgan put his gun in the defensive position, ready to be used, and made his way to the far right, taking the metal stairs two at a time. They shook with the weight, clicking gently, but it was enough to give his position away. Morgan was gambling on the fact that Zsasz hadn't appeared to have been armed with a gun.
His body tense, Morgan hunched forward in preparation, his foot taking one step, then another onto the narrow scaffold. It wasn't the grinding sound of metal giving way that told Morgan that Zsasz hadn't been up here, it was the sudden lurch.
The pull of gravity was enough to knock Morgan to his knees. The raised pattern of the foothold cut into his legs but held him in place. Morgan's eyes widened in shock, but he collected his breath, realizing, for the most part, that the scaffold was still connected to the wall and barely leaning on its supports. It would hold. He hoped.
One sigh of relief was all he was allowed before he heard it: click click click. Chains passing through a metal chamber. Morgan wasn't sure what it meant until he saw one of the hollowed engines jerk in his direction, its primitive pulley put to use on the floor level. Inertia swung the chunk of metal at the bottom of the scaffold. The hit left Morgan scrambling for the handrail closest to the wall. It felt like slick ice against his palm, but he held on, even as the wall beneath his knees shifted.
The scaffold hung at its center, ready to pull loose, to fall. Morgan shot a look over his shoulder. The staircase was holding steady… if he could reach it.
"Did you like it, Mr. F.B.I?" The voice was distant, echoing off the metal walls like some surrounding specter bouncing from one place to another. Morgan ignored the weight of fear in the pit of his stomach and traced the sound to the shadows far across the room. Where the pulleys were. "Did you like the dead things I left for you? They were dead before I laid a hand on them, of course. I simply released them."
"Victor Zsasz!" Morgan shouted. And immediately knew it was the wrong move. The profile had told them that, for all his gloating, his self righteous excuses, Zsasz would protect his identity.
There was a pause from Zsasz. "I like to talk to them on occasion, the ones I finish slowly. Explain why they're better off on my knife."
The shadows shifted with movement. But it didn't come from the direction of the pulleys. Morgan squinted. Prentiss?
"But I don't think I'll give you that luxury, Mr. F.B.I," Zsasz finished. "You should sincerely hope that the impact kills you."
It echoed throughout the chamber: Click click click.
The pulley released another load. It swung, cutting across the strip of outside light as it swung toward the scaffold. Morgan tightened his grip on the bar, preparing for the impact. The gleam of the chains caught his wide eyes, and the twenty foot section of scaffold disappeared beneath legs. He felt the pressure of his body weight on his arms only a moment before he had the breath knocked out of him.
Morgan blinked, coughing. He'd been thrown onto his back, his shoulder blades digging into the metal of the top two steps leading down from the scaffold. The stillness lasted only a moment before a hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him to his feet again. The arm, a flash of black, repositioned itself, tight around his waist, and his rescuer all but ran down the steps with the agent in a slouched tow.
Steel bolts pulled free from the straining aluminum siding and the staircase fell, sideways, as tall and threatening as a tower, onto the unused boat frame. The crash of metal left Morgan's ears ringing, but he managed to regain himself. He blinked up, released on the concrete less than gently, and looked up to see a black cowl, the chin and lips of a Caucasian male. And piercing, black-lined eyes.
"Batman," Morgan breathed.
The vigilante's lips parted, but he hesitated, then glanced up, as if the pointed ears upon his head had detected some faint sound. Morgan was dazed, but he took the figure in, every inch, noting that the costume was armor, as they suspected, fully functional and not created for the aesthetic.
"Morgan!"
Derek pushed himself up on his cut knees just in time for Prentiss's shadow to fall over him. When he turned back to the factory floor, he saw only a mass of metal behind him. Batman was gone. And so was Victor Zsasz.
"Damn it," he groaned.
In the distance, sirens sounded. Their backup. Prentiss dropped to one knee, a hand at Morgan's elbow to help him stand.
"What happened?" Prentiss asked.
Morgan had the good sense not to punch the closest wall in frustration. He scowled at the empty factory. "We lost them. I had them in my grasp, and I lost them."
GO TO CHAPTER 7