Marco had been in plenty of morgues before, but he'd never gotten used to the smell. Death had a scent, and no amount of bleach could cover it up completely.
Edward stood over one of the examination tables, peeling off his latex gloves. Around him, fifteen body bags lay in neat rows on gurneys. He'd spent the last three hours examining every one of them.
"Time of death was approximately twenty-four hours ago," he said without looking up. He dropped the gloves in a biohazard bin and picked up a report from his desk. "Based on the fluid in their lungs and the contaminants present, they definitely drowned. But people who die from drowning might look peaceful, sure. Sometimes you even get a spasmodic smile from muscle contractions." He finally looked at Marco. "But not like this. Not all fifteen of them with identical expressions. That's not physiology, that's control."
"Control. You mean like a cult? Mass suicide pact?"
"If it were a cult, they'd usually be drugged out of their minds. Chemical compliance is standard procedure for that kind of thing." Edward gestured to a stack of toxicology reports. "But these girls? Blood work came back clean across the board. No hallucinogens, stimulants, or depressants. Several of them had never even touched marijuana. Two of them don't even drink alcohol, we confirmed it with their families."
He sat down in his chair.
"And there's something else. Their stomach contents are highly similar, almost identical. They all consumed the same dessert and black tea roughly four hours before death. That's not something a group of unrelated girls would coincidentally do on their own. Different neighborhoods, social circles, and economic backgrounds. But they all had tea party before they died."
Marco rubbed his face. "So what are you saying? Someone threw them a tea party and then hypnotized them into drowning themselves?"
"Given the evidence? That's the only explanation that fits." Edward stood up and walked over to one of the examination tables, pulling back the sheet to reveal the victim's face. She looked peaceful, like she'd died in her sleep. "You'd need a hypnotist capable of placing at least fifteen people into deep hypnotic states simultaneously. Deep enough to override basic survival instincts. That's... extremely rare, and unprecedented."
"That's way too supernatural," Marco said, pushing off from the wall. "Come on, Ed. You really believe in hypnosis? Isn't that just stage magician bullshit? Plant a stooge in the audience, make them cluck like a chicken?"
"Stage hypnosis is entertainment. Clinical hypnosis is real." Edward covered the victim's face again. "But you're right to be skeptical. If the hypnotist and subject are strangers, and the subject strongly resists the suggestion? The failure rate is astronomical. You can't just hypnotize someone into doing something that violates their core survival instincts. Unless they trust you."
He walked over to a pile of clothing, all laid out in neat rows like evidence at a crime scene. Which, technically, they were.
"However, there's something else you need to pay attention to."
Edward picked up one of the dresses, holding it up to the light. "See these? The victims may look different, but their outfits are nearly identical. Bright blue A-line dresses with a white pinafore apron. Long blonde hair, wigs, in most cases, with black headbands. White stockings. Black Mary Jane shoes." He looked at Marco expectantly. "What does that remind you of?"
Marco stared at the dress. There was something familiar about it, but he couldn't quite...
A dog barked somewhere outside, the sound carrying through the vents.
"I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "The Wizard of Oz! Dorothy!"
Edward sighed. "Try again. Here's a hint: why is a raven like a writing desk?"
"A raven? What, like Edgar Allan Poe? The hell does that have to do with—"
"Alice," Edward said patiently. "Alice in Wonderland."
"Oh." Marco felt like an idiot. "Right. Yeah, I know it's famous and all, but I've never actually read it. Or seen the movie. Don't look at me like that, it's not my fault. My family wasn't exactly big on fairy tales. We were more opera."
"Actually," Edward said with a small smile, "I'm quite familiar with opera. I saw La Bohème at the Met last year. Stunning production."
"Of course you did." Marco shook his head. "Is there anything you don't know?"
"Plenty. But I compensate with enthusiasm." Edward laid the dress back down. "The point is, our suspect is obsessed with Alice in Wonderland. Specifically, with Alice herself. He's recreating her. Over and over again."
Marco pulled out his notebook, flipping to a clean page. "Okay. So where do we start? Victim identities and social circles. Any conventions or events they might've all attended. Last known witnesses. Check costume shops for bulk purchases. Interrogate every therapist and hypnotist in Gotham—"
"No." Edward held up a hand. "That's not the key. You're thinking like a cop, which is fine, but it won't get you to him fast enough."
He walked back to the pile of dresses and picked up two of them, holding them side by side.
"Notice this: out of the fifteen matching outfits, twelve have rougher cuts, uneven stitching, and low-quality material. They're clearly handmade by the same person, you can see the progression in skill level. The first few are almost amateurish. By the end, they're much better, but still not professional." He set them down and picked up a different one. "Only three are refined enough to be mass-produced commercial pieces."
"Let me finish," he said, cutting off Marco's attempt to interrupt. "You might say it's because the suspect is short on money. But to me, this shows he was obsessively crafting his own perfect Alice. He was practicing, getting more skilled. And the last few? Maybe he was simply running out of time."
He grabbed a piece of paper and drew a large question mark in the center.
"If he's part of this story... then the question is: who is he?"
Marco waited, knowing Edward was about to go full Riddler mode.
"The Queen of Hearts loves chopping off heads, but Alice is only one of many targets. The Cheshire Cat is elusive and keeps her at a distance. The White Rabbit? No, Alice brings him nothing but panic and trouble. So..." He wrote a name on the paper. "Who is truly obsessed with Alice? Who keeps her at the tea party that never ends?"
He turned the paper around.
THE MAD HATTER.
"I've got you," Edward said quietly.
Marco stared at the name. "Okay. So what does that mean? We're looking for some pervert tailor?"
"We're looking for someone who identifies with the Mad Hatter." Edward started writing notes rapidly. "Tall top hat, that's a signature. He'll have one, even if he tries to hide it. The character represents someone stuck in time, trapped in an eternal tea party. Childlike logic... and likely fragmented thinking."
He paused, tapping the pen against his chin.
"Psychologically, this suggests someone with severe social difficulties. Someone who sees himself as a child who never grew up. And given the fixation on the Mad Hatter specifically, and the character's iconic appearance, I'd estimate our suspect has unusual physical characteristics. Possibly short stature. Maybe even a dwarf. The top hat is meant to add height, you see. It's compensatory."
He handed the paper to Marco.
"Find him. Bring him to me so I can see if I'm right."
Marco took the paper, staring at the notes. "You looked at two dresses, examined the stitching, and now you know what the suspect looks like. How the fuck do you connect those things?"
"Pattern recognition. Behavioral analysis. Deductive reasoning." Edward smiled slightly. "I thought you'd understand, you do it too, just in different ways."
"I solve crimes by talking to people and occasionally punching them. You're over here building psychological profiles from thread counts." Marco folded the paper and shoved it in his pocket. "When this case is over, I swear I'm getting an IQ test and applying for disability benefits."
Edward actually laughed at that. "Go on, Marco. I believe in you."
Marco headed for the door, then paused. "Hey, Ed. Thanks for doing this. I know sneaking into the morgue at two in the morning isn't exactly protocol."
"Are you kidding? This is the most interesting thing I've worked on in months." Edward was already pulling out another report, lost in his work. "Besides, you're going to make sergeant next month, right? I'm investing in future resources."
"Speaking of which..." Marco turned back. "You really sure you don't want to transfer to the East End? I'm setting up a proper forensics unit. I could really use someone with your brain."
Edward hesitated, and for a moment Marco thought he might actually say yes. Then something shuttered in his expression.
"I... congratulations on the promotion. But right now, I... I have some things I need to figure out here first."
"Fair enough." Marco shrugged. "But I'm going to ask you again next time. And the time after that. Keep asking until you say yes."
"I appreciate that. Honestly, you're starting to wear me down." Edward gave him a small smile. "Next time, maybe."
"Next time I'll have Darnell teach you the moonwalk. Girls love that shit."
"Moonwalk?" Edward's smile widened. "I can already do that."
Marco left, and behind him, he heard Edward stand up. Through the small window in the door, he caught a glimpse of the man flowing through a series of smooth dance steps, finishing with an elegant spin and a deep bow toward the row of bodies in their refrigerated drawers.
"Weird guy," he muttered, but he was smiling.
---
Gotham Central Police Headquarters, Major Crimes Division.
Gordon drained his coffee cup and immediately regretted it. The Major Crimes bullpen was chaos at this hour. Phones were ringing, detectives were shouting, someone's radio was crackling with dispatch chatter.
Fifteen DOAs in one location. That made it a red ball case, which meant everyone wanted a piece of it. And everyone had an opinion.
"They've got almost nothing in common," he said, spreading the victim files across his desk. "Two of them were classmates at Gotham University. That's it. The rest were cheerleader, office worker, punk rocker, student, even a working girl from the Narrows. Family backgrounds range from upper-middle-class to drowning in debt."
Detective Harvey Bullock leaned back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the NO SMOKING signs plastered everywhere.
"If it's a serial killer, they don't dump bodies in bulk like this," Bullock said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. "Serials are about the hunt and ritual. They take their time."
Gordon nodded slowly. "What do you think?"
"I think I'm dead tired, and I think we need more coffee." Bullock stubbed out his cigarette in an empty soda can. "But yeah, this doesn't track like anything I've seen before."
He picked up one of the photos, studying it.
"And they're all smiling. That's the part that gets me."
---
East End Precinct.
Marco walked into the precinct at three in the morning to find Alan and Anna still hunched over paperwork in the bullpen. The place was nearly empty, just the night shift skeleton crew and a couple of uniforms processing a drunk and disorderly.
"Why are you two still here?" Marco asked, dropping into his chair. "I thought I told you to go home."
"We're close to something," Alan said, not looking up from the stack of files. His eyes were bloodshot. "I think, anyway. Or maybe I'm hallucinating from exhaustion."
"What've you got?"
Alan pulled out a report and handed it to Marco. "Missing persons case from last year. A mother reported her daughter kidnapped. Two days later, the girl wandered home on her own, completely out of it."
Marco scanned the report. "And?"
"When she came back, she was wearing a blue dress, white socks, and black shoes. Alice costume." Alan tapped the page. "She recovered after about a week, but she never remembered where she'd been or what happened to her."
Marco sat up straighter, exhaustion forgotten. "Where did this happen?"
"Crime Alley. Near the old Monarch Theater."
Marco grabbed his map and spread it across his desk, marking the location with a red circle. "Okay. Where else?"
Alan pulled out another report. "Three months before that, similar case. A girl disappeared for a day, came back dressed in the same outfit. No memory. That one was in the northern suburbs."
Marco marked it. "And our current victims washed up at Miller Bay, near Triangle Bridge." He circled that location, then sat back, staring at the map.
Three locations, forming a rough triangle across Gotham's east side.
"He's operating somewhere in this area," he said, drawing lines between the points. "Probably central to all three. Crime Alley, northern suburbs, Triangle Bridge..." He grabbed his notes from Edward. "We're looking for a short man, possibly a dwarf, who wears a top hat. Obsessed with Alice in Wonderland."
"A dwarf with a top hat?" Anna looked skeptical. "That's going to narrow it down?"
"It's better than nothing." Marco stood up. "Start running background checks on everyone in that area. Focus on anyone with priors involving women, anyone who works in costume shops or tailoring, anyone with psychiatric records—"
"Sir." Alan held up a hand. "That area has tens of thousands of residents. If we try to check them all manually, it'll take weeks. And if the suspect is even remotely smart, he'll know we're looking for him."
Alan was right. Going door-to-door in that neighborhood would spook the suspect, and they'd lose him.
"Fuck."
---
Gotham Central, Major Crimes Division.
"We can't just sit here waiting for something to break," Gordon said, checking his service weapon. "We need to hit the streets, talk to informants, and find out if anyone's heard anything."
Bullock looked at him over the rim of his coffee cup. "You send the guys to check with the head-shrinkers yet?"
"Yeah. Nothing useful." Gordon holstered his weapon. "All the licensed therapists and hypnotists in Gotham are falling over themselves to admit their hypnosis techniques are bullshit the second they hear it's connected to a murder case. Bunch of charlatans."
"Told you. Hypnosis is snake oil." Bullock swung his legs off the desk. "What about the Narrows? Any whispers about a new designer drug? Something that makes people compliant?"
"Narcotics is checking, but so far nothing." Gordon grabbed his jacket. "I'm heading out. You coming?"
Bullock groaned, hauling himself to his feet. "Yeah, yeah. Let me grab another donut first. I can't interrogate skels on an empty stomach."
---
East End Precinct.
"Sir!" Anna hung up the phone. "We've got a problem."
Marco looked up from the map. "What now?"
"The vigilante's out again. The one in the cape." Anna checked her notes. "Multiple reports of him beating up people near Triangle Bridge."
"Wait." Marco frowned. "He's beating up people in the street? Not raiding mob fronts?"
"Yeah. Witnesses say he's questioning thugs. One of the guys he beat up called it in and asked if there's a reward for information."
Marco couldn't help but laugh. "I bet the guy he punched is the one who called. Probably trying to get paid twice."
"Should we send someone to pick him up?" Alan asked.
"The vigilante?" Marco shook his head. "Good luck with that. Besides, if he's working the same case, maybe he'll turn up something useful. God knows we need the help."
He looked at the map again. They had a general area, and a motive. But they didn't have a name or address, and they were running out of time.
"Sir." Anna offered him a bag of chips. "You should eat something. Keep your energy up."
"I'm serious." Marco pushed the chips away gently. "If our current direction is right, we're looking for a dwarf hypnotist in a top hat, and let's hope to God he can't Force-choke us or we're really screwed. If we catch the right suspect, sure, maybe we can get a confession. But only if we don't arrest the wrong person first. And there are tens of thousands of people in that search area."
He closed the map, closed his notebook, and looked at Alan and Anna's expectant faces.
"So we're going home. Getting some sleep."
"What?" They said it in unison.
"Don't 'what' me." Marco pointed at both of them. "We don't have a solid lead yet. Killing ourselves with overtime isn't going to make the suspect walk through that door and surrender. Go home. Get a few hours of sleep. Come back fresh."
"What about you?" Alan asked.
"Me?" Marco grabbed his jacket. "I'm going to sleep for four hours, and then tomorrow morning, I'm meeting an old friend who might be able to help us out."
---
---
Merry Christmas!