Click.
The tape reached its end. The play button on the recorder struggled for a moment, then snapped up. Bob flicked ash into a paper cup, and said, "That's enough."
Marco frowned, turning the cassette over in his hand. "Really? Feels like there's nothing concrete in there. Just gossip and office bullshit."
"If you're trying to put Joshua behind bars, then yeah, this recording is worthless." Bob leaned back in his chair, smoke curling from his nostrils toward the ceiling. "But every trivial thing on that tape is something he said in extremely private moments. Shit he'd only say when he thought nobody was listening. I can't even imagine how your boy Otis managed to get it."
"To Joshua, if we know even this much, what about everything else? Won't he assume we already have the real dirt on him? The stuff that'd actually stick?" Bob tapped the tape with one thick finger. "We're not trying to make him confess to anything. We're just getting him to help overturn the case. Add in that the mistake he admitted to was only because Fleck misled him with lies... Joshua won't roll the dice on that. He'll cooperate."
Then Bob's gaze sharpened, and he stared hard at Marco's face.
"Marco... you don't happen to have any recordings of me, do you?"
Marco shook his head. "Chief. Come on. Recording you does nothing for me. I'm counting on you to cover my ass when things get rough." He leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated look, one hand pressed to his chest like he'd been shot. "How could you even think that? That really hurts."
"You're right..." Bob took a deep drag, held it, then exhaled slowly while staring at Marco for a long moment. Finally, he smiled. "You wouldn't do something unless there's a benefit in it. That's what I like about you. I'll give the tape to the prosecutor. The two of them will work it out."
Marco blinked. "That easy? Fleck hasn't even confessed yet."
"That's your problem." Bob waved him off. "Just don't kill him. We need him coherent enough to sign things. Now get out, you've got my answer."
"Thanks, chief."
---
Marco left the chief's office and headed down the corridor. The precinct was quieter than usual, most of the day shift had already clocked out, leaving only the skeleton crew and a few unlucky bastards stuck on paperwork duty.
He found Alan hunched over a desk in the bullpen, surrounded by file boxes. The kid's hair was sticking up at odd angles, and there were dark circles under his eyes that could've passed for bruises.
"You look like shit," Marco said, dropping into the chair across from him.
"Thank you, sir. That's very encouraging." Alan didn't even look up from the file he was reading.
"When's the last time you went home?"
"Tuesday."
"It's Thursday."
"Is it?" Alan finally looked up, blinking like he'd just surfaced from underwater. "Huh. That explains why the coffee tastes worse than usual."
Marco reached across the desk and plucked the file from Alan's hands, ignoring his half-hearted protest. "The chief's got you doing all this alone?"
"He said it builds character." Alan slumped back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "I think he's trying to kill me."
"He's not trying to kill you. He's just seeing how much you can handle before you break." Marco tossed the file back onto the pile. "It's a test. You keep taking it without complaining, he'll keep piling it on until you do."
"So what am I supposed to do? Tell him to go fuck himself?"
"No. You tell him either he adds manpower or he adds pay. Otherwise, these files will take you about four hundred years to finish, and you're pretty sure the union wouldn't approve of that timeline." Marco stood up. "Come on. I need you to pull some materials for me anyway. Might as well give you an excuse to stop staring at moldy paperwork."
Alan hauled himself to his feet, grabbing his coffee mug. "What do you need?"
"Everything you've got on the Flanigan case. Otis Flanigan, wrongful conviction for murder."
"Flanigan..." Alan's brow furrowed as he mentally rifled through the archive. "Yeah, I remember seeing that file. Give me ten minutes."
"Take twenty. And drink some water. You look like you're about to pass out."
---
While Alan went digging through the archives, Marco tracked down Otis in the break room. The man was nursing a cup of coffee.
"Hey," Marco said, pulling up a chair. "I need you to write something for me."
Otis looked up. "What kind of something?"
"A statement. Detailed account of what happened back then. Everything you remember, the investigation, how Fleck pressured you." Marco pulled out a notebook and slid it across the table with a pen. "Even if Fleck plays along, expecting him to recall the truth is hopeless. We need something you can memorize and repeat word-for-word if this goes to a hearing."
"You're really doing this," Otis said quietly. "You're reopening the case."
"Yeah. So write it down. Every detail you can remember. And don't embellish, just the truth. That'll be bad enough."
"Thank you, Marco. Thank you." Otis grabbed the notebook, then paused. "Do you need my help with anything else? I can—"
"No." Marco shook his head. "You don't have experience with this kind of thing. I'll handle it."
"Handle what?"
"The part where I convince Fleck to cooperate."
Otis stared at him for a moment, then seemed to understand what Marco wasn't saying. "You're going to hurt him, aren't you?"
Marco stood up, pushing his chair back. "I'm going to have a conversation with him. How that conversation goes depends entirely on how cooperative he feels like being." He tapped the notebook. "Just write the statement. Let me worry about the rest."
---
The fluorescent tube in the interrogation room buzzed lightly.
Fleck sat in the wooden chair, squirming like his ass was on fire. He kept glancing at the door, then at the two-way mirror, then back at the door. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Marco stepped inside, gave the faintest glance up toward the observation window on the second floor, just enough for anyone watching to know he knew they were there, then turned back and locked the door behind him.
The deadbolt slid home.
Fleck's smile faltered. It had been a weak attempt at a smile to begin with, more grimace than grin, but now it collapsed entirely.
"Uh... haha, Marco, hey, I..." He stood up halfway, then seemed to think better of it and sat back down. "We're all colleagues here, right? No need to... no need to..."
"Sit." Marco pulled out the chair across from Fleck and sat down slowly. Then he tossed a thick folder onto the table between them.
"Take a good look."
Fleck hesitated, staring at the folder like it might bite him. His hands hovered over it for a moment before finally opening it.
Inside were records of every dirty thing he had done over the past few years. But once exposed to the light? Each page was a brick heavy enough to bury him.
After only two pages, his face turned the color of old newspaper. Sweat rolled down his forehead in fat droplets, soaking into his collar.
"H-how much do you want?"
"Money?" Marco laughed. He pulled another sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and slid it under Fleck's nose. "Look at this."
It was a summary of the old case involving Otis. From the blank, confused expression on Fleck's face after reading it, he had no memory of it whatsoever. Just another victim in a long line of people he'd fucked over and forgotten about.
"This... what is this?"
"This is my friend's case. I don't want money, Fleck. I want you to admit that you used illegal methods to fabricate a wrongful conviction and forced Otis Flanigan to take the blame for a murder he didn't commit."
"N-no... impossible." Fleck's body trembled. He leaned forward suddenly, reaching out to grab Marco's hand with both of his. "Please, I'll pay whatever you want. Twenty thousand? Thirty? Just name your price—"
"Fleck." Marco pulled his hand back slowly, wiping it on his pants like Fleck's touch had left something contaminated on his skin. "He doesn't want your money. He wants his innocence back."
"But I can't... If I admit that, I'm finished. We're colleagues, aren't we? I've got your back, you've got mine, that's how it works. Whatever your friend wants, I can compensate him. I can make it right without... without destroying my life."
Marco leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. "You want to make it right? Years too late for that, don't you think?"
"Please—"
"I'm not going to waste time on this. You've got two options. Either you admit what you did and maybe, you only get fired and lose your pension..." He tapped the folder with one finger. "Or I release all of this. Think about the people you've screwed over, Fleck. Lots of them work for Falcone now. Or Maroni. You think they're going to be understanding when they find out you're the reason they did time?"
The color drained from Fleck's face so fast Marco thought he might actually pass out.
"N-no, no no no..." Fleck was openly sobbing now. His back bent slowly, hunching over the table as he clutched at Marco's jacket with one trembling hand. "Please... just... you can't do this to me—"
His voice cut off abruptly. Something shifted in his expression. His eyes flashed.
"FUCK!"
He suddenly roared and swung a fist at Marco's temple, putting everything he had into it. It was a clumsy swing, but desperation gave it weight.
Marco slipped left, then buried a heavy hook straight into Fleck's gut.
THUD.
"Urrrgh..."
Fleck's howl cut off into a choked gasp as all the air left his lungs in a rush. He collapsed to the floor, curling up like a pill bug, arms wrapped around his stomach. Then he started retching. Half-digested food mixed with stomach acid and bile splattered across the floor, along with snot and tears and spit.
Marco stood up, shaking out his wrist.
He grabbed a fistful of Fleck's hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to look up from the puddle of his own vomit.
"You can refuse if you want," Marco said evenly. "In that case, I'll send this folder to the press and Internal Affairs. Maybe I'll even drop copies at a few mob social clubs while I'm at it. Let them know who to thank for their legal troubles." He tightened his grip, making Fleck wince. "Your call. Make it fast."
"Y-you... bastard..." Fleck could barely get the words out between gasps. "You... betrayed... the other cops won't... won't stand for this..."
Marco laughed.
"You know who got a one-million-dollar donation from Bruce Wayne for the East End precinct, don't you?" He crouched down, bringing his face level with Fleck's. "And you know how much more is coming after that? Millions, Fleck. So open your eyes and take a good look at reality. Do you think those officers are going to sympathize with you... or back the guy bringing in the money?"
He straightened up.
"And who do you think put me in here to have this little 'heart-to-heart' with you?" Marco tilted his head toward the observation window. "The light in the chief's office has been on the whole time. He's up there right now, probably smoking a cigarette and waiting to hear how this goes. So guess what he wants."
Fleck said nothing. He just lay there in his own vomit.
Marco walked to the door, unlocked it, and paused with his hand on the knob.
"Alan's going to bring you a statement. Don't fuck it up."
---
When Marco walked out of the interrogation room, he found Alan waiting in the hallway with a file folder tucked under one arm and a fresh cup of coffee in his other hand. The kid took one look at Marco's knuckles and wisely chose not to comment on it.
"Statement's ready," Alan said, holding out the folder.
"Good. Give it to Fleck. Tell him he's got an hour to memorize it." Marco took the coffee instead of the folder, drained half of it in one gulp, and grimaced. "That's awful. When did you make this?"
"This morning."
"It tastes like battery acid."
"Yeah, well, I've been awake for forty-eight hours. Everything tastes like battery acid at this point." Alan shifted his weight, looking like he was trying to decide whether to say something. Finally, he just sighed. "Sir, there's something else. Came in about twenty minutes ago while you were... busy."
"What?"
"Bodies. A lot of them." Alan pulled out another report from under his arm. "Miller Bay, East End. Fifteen so far, but patrol thinks there might be more in the water."
Marco stopped mid-sip. "Fifteen?"
"All young women. Fully clothed. And according to the first responders..." Alan hesitated. "They're all smiling."
"Smiling."
"Yeah. That's what the report says. 'Disturbing smiling expressions.' No signs of violence or defensive wounds. CSU's preliminary assessment is suicide, but..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
Marco handed the coffee back and took the report, scanning it quickly. His eyes caught on key phrases: peaceful expressions, no struggle, suspected mass suicide event, possible cult activity.
"Fuck," he muttered. "What kind of lunatic cropped up this time?"
"Headquarters already took over," Alan added. "Major Crimes is handling it. We're just supposed to maintain the perimeter and keep civilians away."
Marco closed the report and looked at Alan for a long moment.
"You were first on scene?"
"No, but I talked to Richards and Kowalski. They were the first responders."
Marco folded the report and tucked it under his arm. "Go give that statement to Fleck. Then go home. Get some sleep."
"What about you?"
"I need to talk to the chief."
---
Marco took the stairs two at a time. Fifteen bodies. All women. All smiling. No violence. That wasn't mob work... organized crime left bodies, sure, but not like this.
He didn't bother knocking on Bob's door, just opened it. The chief was on the phone, grinning broadly at whatever the person on the other end was saying. When he saw Marco, his smile faltered slightly, and he held up one finger in a 'wait' gesture.
"I'll call you back later." Bob hung up, his grin fading entirely as he took in Marco's expression. "What's wrong? Trouble with Fleck?"
"No. He's handled." Marco dropped the report on Bob's desk. "But we've got a bigger problem."
Bob picked up the report, lit a cigarette from the one he'd just finished, and started reading. "Mass suicide? That doesn't add up. If they were junkies tweaking out of their minds, they'd usually tear their clothes off." He glanced at Marco. "Did the market crash recently?"
"Your portfolio's still doing fine, isn't it?"
"Better than fine. So that's not it." Bob took a long drag, smoke streaming from his nostrils. "I'm guessing... cult bullshit. It wouldn't be the first time."
He tossed the report back onto his desk.
"But headquarters has the case now. Major Crimes is handling it. What's it got to do with us?"
Marco stared at him. "Chief, you really surprise me sometimes."
"What?"
"You're not as dumb as you pretend to be."
Bob's eyes narrowed, but there was amusement in them. "I like money, but I'm not stupid. I've been doing this job for nearly thirty years. I remember those Solar Temple bastards in Europe. I remember Heaven's Gate in California, those idiots even bought matching sneakers before they offed themselves. You just haven't seen enough yet. So what's your angle?"
Marco leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. "We can't just sit around waiting for Major Crimes to act. This happened in our district, and the Wayne Foundation just dropped a pile of cash on us. If more people die, Wayne might think his donation went straight into a black hole. We need to show we're taking this seriously."
Bob nodded slowly, following the logic.
"Second," Marco continued, "haven't you noticed? Gotham's freaks are multiplying. First that asshole with the pepper spray. Then the caped vigilante. Now this cult shit. Unlike the mobs, these people don't want business or territory. They're pure destruction. We need to crush them early, before they snowball. If they get too big, we won't be able to contain them."
Bob took a long drag, thinking it over. The cigarette burned down slowly, ash falling onto the desk. Finally, he nodded.
"You're right. From pepper sprays to capes to cults... it's getting harder to squeeze a living out of this city without some psycho fucking it up for everyone. We need to hit back hard."
"Exactly."
"Alright. What's your plan?"
"Increase patrols. Especially in the wealthy districts and commercial areas. More roadblocks and spot checks. Even if it's just for show, we need visibility." Marco hesitated, then continued carefully. "There's one more thing."
Bob watched him through the haze of smoke. "Your face tells me it's nothing proper."
"These lunatics are destroying Gotham's order," Marco said slowly. "If the order collapses, it's not just us who suffer. The mob's got just as much to lose, maybe more."
Bob's eyes gleamed. "You want the mafia involved. That's a dangerous idea, Marco. And a dangerous move. If word gets out that we're coordinating with organized crime... Imagine the headlines. 'GCPD Teams Up With Mob to Fight Cults.' It'd be enough to bury us all."
"They've got eyes and ears everywhere. If there's a cult recruiting in the East End, Falcone's people will know about it before we do." Marco met his gaze steadily. "And if it goes wrong, if someone gets killed tracking these psychos down... better them than one of ours."
Bob tapped his fingers on the desk. Finally, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled a long stream of smoke.
"Do it carefully. Anything that shouldn't be left behind... throw it into the Gotham River afterward."
---
---
Starting this chapter, I added more police terminology and slang.