The neighborhood around the Iceberg Lounge was already waking up, if you could call it that. The kind of people who did business in this part of town didn't keep regular hours.
Marco kept his collar up as he walked the two blocks to where he'd parked his patrol car. The alley between the Iceberg Lounge and his car was already populated. Junkies squatted in doorways, some smoking, some pissing against walls. The air reeked of urine.
He walked through them. Most of them had enough survival instinct to recognize a cop and back off. But there was always one.
A skeletal figure stumbled into his path, so high he probably didn't know what planet he was on. Marco sidestepped, planted his foot, and shoved the guy hard enough to send him sprawling into a pile of garbage bags.
Another one, braver or stupider, rushed at him from the side, hands reaching for Marco's jacket. Probably thought he could grab the wallet before Marco realized what was happening.
Marco's backhand caught him across the face. The crackhead went down, and the others melted back into the shadows.
"I'll play with you when I've got time," he muttered, unlocking his car.
He climbed in, slammed the door, and rubbed his hands together. The heater took forever to kick in, and his fingers were already going numb. He was reaching for the ignition when his phone rang.
Alan's name flashed on the screen.
Marco answered. "Yeah?"
"Sir. George and Steven... the guys checking costume shops, they're dead."
Marco's hand froze halfway to the ignition. "What? Steven's a civilian. He's a tech. Why was he out doing fieldwork?"
"We're short-staffed, and the chief figured checking sales records at a clothing shop wouldn't be dangerous. They... sir, they just started arguing in the middle of the street. Then they both drew their weapons and opened fire."
George had been lazy, sure. Cowardly, even. But he'd been a cop. He'd worn the same uniform. And Steven... Christ, Steven had been a kid. Twenty-three years old, still living with his parents, worked in the forensics lab analyzing fiber samples and blood spatter. He shouldn't have even been in the field.
"Where?"
"Burnley District, near the river. Multiple witnesses—"
"I'm on my way." Marco turned the key, and the engine roared to life.
He slammed his foot on the gas. The tires spun on the half-melted snow, letting out a sharp shriek. The patrol car shot forward.
---
The crime scene was already cordoned off when Marco arrived. Yellow tape fluttered in the cold wind, and a small crowd of gawkers had gathered. A West District patrol car was parked at an angle, blocking the street, and two uniforms stood near the bodies.
Marco killed the engine and climbed out, his eyes immediately going to the corpses lying in the middle of the road.
George and Steven... or what was left of them.
They lay less than five meters apart, sprawled in mirror positions. Both had taken headshots. The blood pooling around them had already started to freeze in the cold air.
"Hey, look who showed up."
He turned to see one of the West District cops leaning against his patrol car, arms crossed, a smirk on his face. Young guy, maybe late twenties.
"I figured Homicide or Major Crimes would handle this," the cop continued. "Didn't expect East End patrol to roll up. What, they send you to clean up your own mess?"
Marco ignored him, walking toward the bodies. He crouched down next to George. Both had fired at point-blank range, aiming directly at each other's heads.
"You listening to me?" The West District cop pushed off from his car, walking closer. "Your people just shot each other in broad daylight. Makes the whole department look bad. Maybe if you East End guys spent less time taking bribes and more time doing police work—"
"Where did they go before they opened fire?"
"What?"
Marco stood up slowly, turning to face the cop. "Before. They. Opened. Fire. Where did they go?"
The cop blinked. "I... how should I know? I just got here—"
Marco took a step closer. "So you don't know anything useful, but you've got plenty of time to run your mouth. That about right?"
"Watch it—"
"Answer the question. Or shut up and let me do my job."
The cop's face went red, but he swallowed whatever he'd been about to say. He pointed toward a storefront about twenty meters away. "Witness says they came out of that shop."
Marco was already moving.
---
Bloom Fashion Arts... The sign swayed gently in the wind, and through the window, he could see racks of colorful dresses and professional attire. He opened the door, and a small bell chimed overhead.
Behind the counter, a young woman stood frozen, her hands twisted together nervously.
"GCPD," he said, pulling out his badge. "I need to ask you some questions."
"Y-yes, Officer." She nodded quickly. "Your colleague already questioned me. I told him everything I know. It's just... God, it's so horrible."
Marco moved closer to the counter, keeping his voice level. "The two men who died. They were just in here. What did they ask you?"
"They wanted to know if anyone had come in recently to buy blue dresses. You know, like... costume dresses? With white aprons?" She shook her head. "But I don't carry that kind of thing. Everything here is for adults. Professional wear, evening gowns, that sort of thing."
Marco watched her eyes as she spoke. She seemed shaken, but that didn't mean much. If the Mad Hatter had gotten to her, she wouldn't even know she was lying.
"Any other clothing shops on this street?"
"Yes." She pointed east. "About two hundred meters that way. They do costumes and children's clothes."
He was out the door before she finished speaking.
---
Marco ran.
Two hundred meters through Gotham's morning streets, weaving around pedestrians and jumping over a half-collapsed chain-link fence. His breath came in white clouds, his lungs burning from the cold air and the exertion, but he didn't slow down.
Feather & Flower Costume Boutique. The sign was painted in cheerful pastel colors.
He hit the door hard, shoving it open.
"GC... fuck!"
He stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing in the pool of blood spreading across the floor. It was still warm, still spreading, which meant he'd just missed...
The woman sat in a chair facing the door, her eyes wide and staring, seeing nothing. A kitchen knife was still clutched in her right hand. She'd used it to cut her own throat.
The wound gaped obscenely, severed carotid spraying blood across the wall behind her. The force required to do that kind of damage to yourself was enormous. Most people couldn't manage it even if they wanted to. The survival instinct kicked in, the hand hesitated, the cut wasn't deep enough.
But she'd done it.
On the wall behind her, written in her own blood, still wet and dripping: OFF WITH HER HEAD.
He stared at the words. A command? An instruction? Or had the Mad Hatter been trying to make her finish the job and she'd died before she could complete it?
Movement caught his eye. At her feet, flames flickered inside a metal trash can. Papers curled and blackened in the fire.
"Shit!"
He lunged forward, grabbed the trash can, and hurled it through the open door onto the street. He followed it out, stomping on the burning papers, trying to save whatever he could.
But it was too late. Most of the documents had already been reduced to ash. The wind caught the remains, lifting them into the air, scattering them across the streets until they disappeared into the gray sky.
He crouched down, sifting through what was left. A few charred fragments, barely readable. Purchase orders. Sales receipts. Nothing that would lead them to the Mad Hatter.
He stayed there for a long moment.
Three people dead.
And for what? To cover up a fucking paper trail?
---
Gotham Central Police Headquarters, Evidence Room.
The fluorescent lights buzzed. Marco had been standing in the evidence room for twenty minutes, watching Edward sort through the charred fragments of paper he had salvaged from the fire.
"Anything?" he asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear it anyway.
Edward shook his head without looking up. "Almost everything burned. The few fragments I've been able to restore are all old customers. None of them purchased anything matching the Alice costume."
"Fuck."
Marco raised his fist, ready to put it through something, then remembered he was in someone else's workspace. He looked around for something he could smash. Found nothing. Settled for punching his own palm hard enough to make his hand sting.
"Calm down, Marco. At least we've confirmed the hypnosis angle is correct. Now we need to figure out how he's doing it."
The evidence room door opened, and Gordon walked in. "Edward, how's it—"
He stopped when he saw Marco and gave a curt nod. "Officer Vitale."
Behind him, Bullock ambled in, a half-eaten donut in one hand. He took one look at Marco and laughed.
"You again? What is this, the homeless patrol officer and the Riddler's buddy-buddy club?" He took a bite of his donut, chewing with his mouth open. "Don't you East End guys have work to do, or are you too busy shaking down corner stores for protection money?"
"Yeah, well, useless drunks can't solve cases. So we have to step up and do your job for you."
Bullock's smile vanished. "What did you say?"
"I said you're a drunk." Marco turned to face him fully. "Everyone knows it. You show up to work half in the bag, you can barely hold your gun steady, and you've skated on so many DUIs that IA stopped bothering to file paperwork. So maybe instead of running your mouth, you should go find another donut and let the people with functioning brain cells handle the investigation."
Bullock's face turned purple. "I've been on the job longer than you've been alive—"
Gordon stepped between them. "Both of you, knock it off. This isn't helping anyone."
Bullock glared at Marco for another few seconds, then turned and stomped out of the evidence room, muttering under his breath. Gordon gave Marco a long look.
"Try to play nice with the other detectives. We're all on the same side."
"Are we?" Marco asked, but Gordon had already left.
Edward cleared his throat softly. "You know, antagonizing Major Crimes probably isn't the best career move."
"Fuck him." Marco rubbed his face. "What were you saying? About how the Mad Hatter's doing this?"
Edward stood up, walking over to a whiteboard on the wall. He picked up a marker and started writing as he talked.
"There are three primary methods of mind control: psychological suggestion, electronic manipulation, or psychic ability." He drew three circles, labeling each one. "Psychological suggestion requires face-to-face contact and sustained interaction. Too risky for the suspect, he'd have to personally meet with each victim. Plus, it doesn't explain the mass hypnosis effect."
He crossed out the first circle.
"Psychic ability is... Let's just say if that's what we're dealing with, we have bigger problems than one serial killer. And no way to stop him."
He crossed out the second circle.
"Which leaves electronic manipulation. A device that can influence brain activity through electromagnetic pulses or similar technology." He tapped the third circle. "Theoretically possible. There's been research into transcranial magnetic stimulation, deep brain stimulation, even some experimental work with ultrasound."
"You're saying this guy built a mind control machine," Marco said flatly.
"I'm saying it's the only explanation that fits the evidence." Edward turned to face him. "But here's the thing, if he's using an electronic device, there should be traces, like physical evidence, brain damage from overexposure to electromagnetic fields, or cellular disruption."
He picked up a folder from the table and handed it to Marco.
"The autopsy reports on the fifteen drowned girls show nothing. But what about George and Steven? What about the shop owner? If the Mad Hatter was desperate enough to make them kill each other and herself, he might have cranked up the power."
"You want to do the autopsies."
"I want to look at their brains," Edward corrected.
"You're not authorized to perform autopsies," Marco pointed out. "That's Dr. Gora's job."
"He is a bureaucrat who does the bare minimum and clocks out at five. I can do this. I just need authorization."
"Gordon," Marco said. "He can get you approval from Captain Essen. I'll ask him"
---
One hour later...
The evidence room door opened again. Gordon stepped back in, alone this time. "Edward, I talked to Captain Essen. She's authorizing emergency discretionary powers given the time-sensitive nature of the case. You can perform the autopsies on George and Steven, as well as the civilian victim. This isn't your normal jurisdiction. Don't make me regret going to bat for you."
"Understood." Edward nodded, and Gordon left.
For a long moment, the evidence room was silent except for the buzzing lights. He stood there, holding the autopsy authorization.
Then he looked up.
"Marco... does the East End... do you still need people?"
Marco felt a grin spreading across his face. "Oh, hell yes."
He crossed the room in two steps and pulled Edward into a bear hug, slapping him on the back.