Chapter Text
If you thought the GCPD was busy before, it was nothing compared to the day after a triple homicide. Media outlets were running wild and you had received a hefty bonus for pointing the Gotham Gazette in the right direction. In fact, the Gotham Gazette was the first outlet to have reported on the murder for at least three hours before the rest caught on.
When you got home, you took a shower to clean yourself, wrapping yourself in a fluffy towel afterwards. You had lasted about four minutes standing listlessly in your bedroom, before you got back into the shower and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until your skin was raw. You stayed under the spray for almost three hours, rocking yourself on the floor while you came to terms with everything you saw. It was jarring and disgusting, and exactly what the Joker had done to Jason Todd. Now, for some inane reason, he was seeking vengeance on a dead kid.
You reached the front desk and Shawn recoiled when he saw you. Good to know you had some sort of impact on him at least. "Hiya, Shawn."
"Please, this cannot be happening today," he whispered to himself and then louder to you, "ma'am, the records are-"
"Sealed, I know. I want to know about the murders. Was it the Joker?"
"I really can't tell you anything about that," he said apologetically. "Especially since you're with the Gazette. The press office is over there, if you want any information. We'll be holding a press release in fifteen minutes."
You were guided to the press room where you and a group of journalists and reporters sized each other up, each just as eager as the next for information. It was a ruthless industry, and while you were willing to do anything for a headline, there were lines you wouldn't cross. Not many, but they did exist. You would never kill, for example, or steal- wait, no, you had technically stolen police files, so you supposed that yes, you would steal- but you would never intentionally put people in harms way. Unless it was yourself. For yourself, you had a complete disregard for safety.
The press officer was a short man who looked like a sickly Victorian child with his round glasses, thinning blond hair and sallow cheeks. You made a mental note: do NOT drink the Gotham tap water. Things were already off to a bad start when the man shuffled into the room with a nervous limp, pushing his glasses up and clearing his throat before he even began. He gave them a general run down of how the Joker had killed three people via one hanging and two decapitations. You waited carefully for him to mention the note, but he moved past that, explaining that there was no clear motive behind the attack. You frowned. He asked if there were any questions and your hand shot up.
"There were no indicators as to the Joker's motives?"
"Yes," he said patiently, "as I explained, the Joker is mentally unstable and we are looking into apprehending and containing him for the good of the public."
"I have a follow up," you said and waited for a nod to continue, "so there were no signs whatsoever, no notes or messages at all?"
"No," the press officer repeated, eyeing you strangely, "aside from his signature J carved into the victim's faces, there was nothing. Next?"
You waited for the Q&A session to finish, making notes and asking a few more questions that your superiors had requested you ask before you and the rest of the room filed out slowly, a few people murmuring quietly into their recorders.
You texted on the Gazette group chat and let them know you would be on your way back soon. The rest of the reporters left immediately, buzzing with morbid curiosity.
Before you left the precinct, there was a shout of surprise and you heard a radio fire to life.
"This is Officer Dillon reporting from Gotham Harbour. There's been another murder in the Joker case."
~~
Jason inspected the notes with trepidation. The first was a plain envelope while the second had been placed into a striped purple and green envelope. Both had the same fancy Victorian-esque script with purple and green lettering. The Joker never much cared about identities- it would only ruin his fun to expose them- but how he knew it was Jason back from the dead under the hood, no one could figure out. Steph thought he recognised Jason's voice, but that made no sense considering the helmet modulated the voice and his voice was considerably deeper than when he was fifteen. Or at least, he really hoped it was.
He sighed and rubbed at his chin, looking around his spacious apartment. It was a red brick brownstone renovated and cleared out into an open floor plan. Tim and Dick dubbed it his bat-chelor pad and joked that it looked like an IKEA showroom. There were a couple books piled on the floor because he was always running out of shelf space. Would his soulmate mind when he found her? If he found her? Or would she be messier than him?
He looked around the apartment again. His life wasn't exactly wife-friendly. There were explosives hidden in the Cheerios box and a Glock in the Frosties. His bed had a hidden panel where he kept three guns of different calibres and a couple of knives. One of his couches was placed strategically facing the window so that he could flip it to shield himself if attackers burst in through there, though that was unlikely considering he spent two million on reinforced bulletproof glass. The back leg of that same couch sat next to a loose floorboard decked out with yet another gun, extra ammunition, the ingredients for a Molotov cocktail, and a first aid kit. And that was just the obvious hiding spots. There was a rifle under his bed and a baseball bat hanging on his wall.
How could he even begin to explain it all to his soulmate? Especially the dying and coming back. Sometimes, if his emotions ran high enough, his eyes still took on an eerie green hue. The aftereffects of the pit never fully left him.
Jason picked up the second note and brought it close to his face, as if distance was the issue and not the content. Before he could yell out his frustration, his phone blasted out Cupcakke's CPR. Dick must have changed his ringtone again. His brother had extended his stay in Gotham after Joker's first round of victims, and the GCPD was more than happy to let him work the case- he was Dick Grayson, after all.
"What do you want Dickie?"
"Joker killed three guys again, you need to get to the scene before the cops tag the note as evidence." He heard Dick yell something on the other end before he spoke up again, "look, I managed to move it so they didn't see it, but you need to get here now."
"Fuck me."
~~
There was another note. You inched your way around the crime scene until you found an opening, slipping under the tape quietly. The scene was at the edge of the docks where the first few bodies were found, but these had been hauled onto stretchers to be transported to the morgue.
You stepped closer to the bodies, all lined up with the same J carved into their left cheeks. At the sound of voices approaching, you ducked behind the furthest stretcher, coming eye to eye with the dead body's hand hanging off the cot. Just as you suspected, the knuckles were tattooed with the same jester's cap. Joker was killing his own men in threes, but why? And why was there no note? Had the cops gotten to it first?
You were about to duck under the police tape behind you when a sliver of purple and green caught your eye. The envelope was tucked under the mattress of the stretcher, and you used a handkerchief to pull it out, opening it and taking a picture of the note as quickly as you could. Oddly enough, this time the envelope was already opened, but you chalked it up to the water washing the seal.
You replaced the evidence and crept around the ambulance, behind a foldable table, satisfied with your findings. You were ready to take your leave when the voices grew louder and you saw two pairs of shoes come into view under the stretchers.
Wait... you knew that voice. Slightly too cheerful and ray of sunshine-y, flowers probably grew where he walked and rain made a circle around to avoid wetting him. You pulled out your phone and started a recording for future reference.
"You're sure no one else has seen it?"
"The note is right- here you go." You peeked around the table and- yep, you were right, that was Richard. The other man was slightly taller but his head was bent behind Richard, hiding his face from view. His voice was deeper too, a slight gravelly arrogance to his tone.
"Thanks, Dickie," the mystery man said. "If the cops had to get this, it would have fucked the case."
Richard groaned painlessly and you heard them scuffle. "Oh shut up, Richard."
You didn't catch much else, because those words were ringing in your
"Hey! Wait, you know that journalist I've been keeping an eye on for you?" Your jaw stayed firmly shut. Why? Because you knew your gut was right. Richard was definitely suspicious of you.
"She calls me Richard," he said, and the other man grunted.
"Whatever. Stop engaging with her. I have to go."
"Yeah, yeah," Richard said dismissively, "I'll see you soon?"
"Tonight." The other man cleared his throat and you curled in on yourself. "Thanks again for this."
"'Course. You know, I think," Richard dragged out his vowels teasingly, "that the Hood will find this useful."
PAUSE. Pause for just a moment. Richard Grayson, detective extraordinaire, was working with the Hood? You rubbed your temple. He had just handed one of the Hood's lackeys evidence with barely a twitch.
The two men walked off and you slipped under the tape, straightening just in time for a police officer to spot you and ask you to step back. You followed instructions and backed away, complying like any good, law-abiding journalist would do.
The gears started shifting and you rubbed at your temples, starting to put distance between you and the crime scene. Were you still in Metropolis, you would never have pulled half the stunts you did here for fear of working street cameras. Silver linings in dark clouds. You spared your phone a glance to see that you had a few missed calls from Vicki and your boss but you were sure they could wait until you got to the office.
When you were safely on the train, you exhaled sharply- an exhale so relieving that it could only ever be compared to the Charles Leclerc Sigh of Relief™ circa Monaco Grand Prix 2024.
Was Richard a dirty cop? Why else would he be working with a crime lord, unless- maybe Richard didn't want his dead brother to be dragged into an official investigation, and he was using the Hood to get his own form of justice. An illegal form of justice.