I had been carrying my federal badge for seven days.
The leather case hung around my neck from a dark chain and sometimes struck my sternum when I walked too quickly. It did not yet have a scratch, a crease, or the subtle patina that allowed professional objects to stop resembling accessories handed out for a ceremony.
Every time I felt it against my shirt, part of me still checked that it was truly there.
Special Agent Malcolm Beaumont.
Not Detective Beaumont visiting a federal building. Not the candidate they made run, write, shoot, and answer the same questions under three different phrasings. Not Ten, the police officer certain reporters had turned into a story before I had time to decide what that story actually said about me.
Special Agent.
I liked the title.
I was not going to pretend otherwise to make my ambition more acceptable.
It did not reassure me yet.
Naomi Pierce waited for me outside the conference room, a thin file held against her chest. She wore a charcoal-gray pantsuit and a white shirt buttoned to the second button. Her black hair, cut at jaw level, had been carefully tucked behind one ear. Her face revealed neither particular fatigue nor pleasure at seeing me.
That summarized our first week fairly well.
She looked at the badge when it struck my sternum again.
"You should slip it beneath your jacket when you move."
I took the case between two fingers to steady it.
"I was told to keep it visible inside secured areas."
"Visible does not mean mobile."
Her tone was neither mocking nor aggressive. Merely factual.
I passed the chain beneath my lapel, leaving the case visible against my shirt.
"Better?"
Pierce examined the result.
"Sufficient."
She opened the door.
I had spent six working days learning her definition of sufficient.
Pierce was not openly hostile. She did not trip me up in procedures or attempt to prove my presence at the Bureau was a mistake. She simply behaved as though that possibility had not yet been definitively eliminated.
She read everything I wrote.
She reviewed the timelines I constructed, checked every reference, and asked why I had placed one theory before another. She watched my reactions during exercises, especially the moments when I took initiative before receiving a formal instruction.
I watched her too.
A professional relationship was never a one-sided examination, even when one participant appeared to have received the answer sheet before everyone else.
Pierce was rigorous. Sometimes rigid. She distrusted intuitions expressed with too much certainty, agents who invoked their experience when they did not want to explain their reasoning, and careers accelerated by a case that had become famous.
I checked at least two out of three categories.
Frank was already waiting inside the room.
He stood near the window with his hands in the pockets of his security uniform. The gray morning light passed partly through his shoulder. His SECURITY patch appeared darker than the rest of the fabric, as did the old bullet marks that remained visible whenever he stopped controlling his appearance.
He had crossed two walls to enter.
Pierce had used the door.
I continued considering the second method more suitable for reports.
Harlan Price stood at the head of the table. A map of the East Coast had been unrolled before him and held flat by three thick files. The seal of the Gotham City Police Department appeared on the first.
The coffee beside his hand no longer gave off steam.
That meant he had been waiting long enough to think about how he would present the assignment.
Pierce took the seat to my right.
I sat across from her.
Price remained standing.
"You have been working together for one week."
"Six working days," Pierce specified.
Price inclined his head slightly, then placed one hand on the files.
"And so far, you have only participated together in supervised exercises. This assignment will be your first real investigation as a team."
Pierce opened her notebook.
I left mine closed.
I preferred first understanding the room before beginning to fill it.
Price slid the first file toward us.
"Captain James Gordon, head of Major Crimes at the GCPD, requested Bureau assistance last night. Four homicides were linked by ViCAP after the injuries and the positioning of the bodies were reexamined."
Pierce opened the folder.
The first photograph showed a man seated at a bus stop. An open newspaper rested between his hands. His head tilted slightly forward, as though he had stopped reading to close his eyes.
The next photograph revealed the blood beneath his coat.
ERNEST VALE.
Fifty-two years old.
Municipal employee.
Married, two adult children.
Discovered twenty-seven minutes after his death.
A passerby initially thought he was sleeping.
Price continued:
"Two victims did not live in Gotham. One came from New Jersey, one from Connecticut. Three crossed a state line within forty-eight hours before their deaths. The disappearances and movements involve several jurisdictions. The Bureau therefore has clear grounds to intervene, but this will be a joint task force."
I turned the page.
A woman sat before the vanity of a hotel room. A brush had been placed inside her right hand. A white towel encircled her neck and almost completely concealed the wound.
MARISOL DELGADO.
Thirty-one years old.
Nurse in Newark.
Came to Gotham for a medical conference.
Eleven minutes passed before a hotel employee realized she would not answer.
The third victim, Owen Kessler, had been found on a bench near the ferry terminal. Sixty-seven years old. Retired teacher. His lunch bag rested beside him. An open book covered his knees.
The fourth, Tasha Green, twenty-four, worked at a restaurant in Burnley. Her phone had been placed inside her hand after her death.
The victims shared neither age, sex, occupation, nor social background.
All had been killed with a bladed weapon.
All had been repositioned into an ordinary activity.
Frank approached the table.
His face closed slightly.
I felt an image pass through our link, too quickly to become a complete memory.
White skin covered with lines.
A metallic flash.
A voice speaking about empty people.
Then nothing.
Price finally sat.
"Captain Gordon will jointly lead the investigation with the Bureau. Pierce, you will take federal responsibility in the field. Beaumont, you will work under her direction and handle part of the analytical comparison, interviews, and operations."
Pierce turned two more pages.
"Why our team?"
Price did not answer immediately.
The pause did not resemble hesitation. He was choosing what he could say without making the answer unnecessarily insulting.
"Your experience matches the case. You have worked on corruption investigations, interstate kidnappings, and organized crime. Beaumont has recent homicide experience and very good results in violent cases."
Pierce raised her eyes.
"We have worked together for six days."
"It is also an opportunity to evaluate your partnership under real conditions."
I looked at the map.
Gotham was surrounded by several red lines indicating the victims' journeys.
"And the more experienced teams?"
Price joined his hands.
"Two are already assigned to priority cases. Other agents were consulted."
Pierce waited.
Price did not immediately continue.
"They know Gotham," he eventually said.
The following silence was more useful than a long explanation.
Gotham had a reputation even inside federal offices. A fractured local police department, long-standing corruption, political pressure, an aggressive press, and crime organized around families and institutions too powerful to appear only in ordinary files.
The experienced agents had not refused to do their jobs.
They had probably found good reasons to do another one.
Pierce partially closed the file.
"So we are available and still too new to choose."
"You are also competent," Price answered. "Both things can be true."
He placed one finger on the GCPD seal.
"Gordon requested our help. He is not inviting you to take over his city. The Bureau will coordinate interstate elements, federal laboratories, national databases, and outside requests. The GCPD retains authority over its scenes and personnel. Major decisions must be made jointly."
"Who represents Gotham besides Gordon?" I asked.
"Detective Harvey Bullock. He was already working on two of the cases before they were connected."
The name stirred something inside me.
Gotham.
James Gordon.
Harvey Bullock.
The images I had inherited from my former life did not all belong to Frank. I had read comics, watched films, and followed television series myself. The memories had blended during my reincarnation until they sometimes became difficult to separate.
I knew those names.
I did not yet know which versions of those men awaited us.
Price continued:
"You leave tomorrow morning. Gordon expects you at ten. Rooms are booked for one week, with extensions available. The Bureau vehicle will be ready at seven."
Pierce finally picked up her pen.
"When do we receive the complete files?"
"They are already available on the secured network. The physical copies remain here until your departure."
She nodded and began writing.
I returned to the photograph of Marisol Delgado.
The towel had been tied carefully.
Not like someone attempting to stop bleeding.
Like someone correcting the presentation of a garment.
"The bodies were not merely hidden," I said.
Price turned toward me.
"Explain."
I brought the four photographs together.
"If the killer simply wanted to delay discovery, he could move them, close a door, or choose more isolated locations. He leaves them visible. He only arranges their posture so the first witnesses do not immediately understand what they are seeing."
Pierce examined the images.
"He simulates an activity."
"Yes. Reading, waiting, brushing hair, using a phone."
"A practical advantage or a signature?"
"For now, a question."
Pierce wrote something in her notebook.
Frank continued staring at the photographs.
"It reminds me of someone."
"Me too."
His gaze shifted toward me.
"Do you have a name?"
"Not yet. Marks on the skin. A thin man. Batman."
Frank looked at the victims again.
"Yes. It's there. Somewhere."
Price stood.
"Read everything before tomorrow morning. I want a clear list of your initial requests before you reach the GCPD. And one last thing."
He looked at us in turn.
"Gotham tests people who think they can understand it too quickly. Work with Gordon. Listen to Bullock even when he presents a good idea badly. Do not confuse local resistance with corruption without facts establishing it."
"Understood," Pierce answered.
I closed the file.
Price added:
"This assignment will evaluate your results, but also your ability to function together. I do not want to receive two competing investigations under the same case number."
Pierce briefly looked toward me.
"That will not happen."
I held her gaze.
"No."
That did not mean we trusted one another.
Only that we both understood the consequences of failure.
My mother's workshop occupied the ground floor of an old brick building whose windows had never been perfectly aligned.
Her name appeared in gold letters across the storefront.
LAURIE HARROWING.
Three mannequins stood inside the window, dressed in pieces elegant enough to suggest the sidewalk itself had not made enough effort. A small sign read BY APPOINTMENT, but the door had never been locked for me.
The bell rang when I entered.
The smell of steam, wool, leather, and cinnamon coffee returned me to memories older than my badge. Rolls of fabric occupied the left wall. Paper patterns hung from hooks. A radio quietly played a soul song my mother accompanied in an almost inaudible voice behind the curtain separating the main workshop from the fitting area.
Frank entered behind me through the door.
He could have passed through the window.
He almost always used ordinary entrances at Laurie's.
"I'm here," I announced.
"You're late," she answered from the back.
I checked my watch.
"By four minutes."
"I know how to read the time. Take off your jacket."
I placed the federal file on a chair and began unbuttoning my jacket.
Frank sat on the edge of the large cutting table.
"Your mother has measured time differently since she began working on bullet-resistant clothing. One ordinary minute probably equals three minutes of anxiety."
"Do not start."
"I haven't said anything unpleasant yet."
"That is precisely why I'm worried."
Laurie pushed aside the curtain.
Short, upright, her hair tied inside a blue scarf, she wore black trousers and a green smock covered with small pale threads. Her glasses rested at the end of her nose. A piece of tailor's chalk protruded from the pocket on her hip.
She stopped to look at my badge.
Her expression changed.
Not greatly.
A slight movement of the lips. One additional second before she resumed walking.
She took the case between her fingers without asking permission.
"So it's official."
"For one week."
"I know how long. I mean seeing it."
She turned the badge over, examined the leather, then placed it back against my chest.
"The chain is too long."
"It's regulation."
"The regulations have bad taste. I'll shorten it later."
"I'm not certain the Bureau will appreciate you altering its equipment."
"I'll alter the chain, not the seal of the United States. They'll survive."
Frank looked at the badge.
"Perhaps you were right not to mention the equipment regulations."
Laurie looked up at me.
"Take off the jacket."
I finished removing it.
She returned behind the curtain and came back carrying a long cream-colored garment bag.
She placed it on the cutting table and slowly opened the zipper.
The trench coat appeared.
Off-white.
Not pure white.
My mother had explained the distinction several times during the previous months. Pure white attracted too much light, aged badly, and gave the impression a garment had been designed never to encounter reality. Off-white accepted from the beginning that the world was dirty.
The cut retained the silhouette of my old trench coat, but almost everything else had changed.
The leather was more matte. The shoulders appeared more structured. The collar rose slightly higher and could be closed without restricting neck movement. The side seams had been repositioned. Several discreet panels followed the torso and back without creating the rigid angles of a vest worn beneath clothing that was too fitted.
I ran one hand over the lapel.
"It's heavier."
Laurie looked at me.
"Put it on."
I slipped into the trench coat.
The weight immediately distributed itself across my shoulders, along my back, and around my sides. Heavier than the old one, yes. But balanced. The leather did not pull backward, and the sleeves remained free.
Laurie fastened the middle buttons.
"Raise your arms."
I obeyed.
She passed her hands beneath my armpits, checked the tension, then tugged gently on the back.
"Turn."
I pivoted.
"Crouch."
I slowly lowered myself, kept my heels on the floor, then rose.
The bottom of the coat moved around my legs without trapping them.
Frank watched with serious attention.
The old leather trench coat had mainly been reinforced against cuts and certain knife attacks. It could slow a blade, distribute the impact, or prevent a superficial cut from becoming more serious. It had never been designed to stop a bullet.
This one was different.
Laurie opened the coat and pressed two fingers against my chest.
"The panels protect the torso, back, and part of the sides. They can be removed and replaced without my taking apart the entire lining."
I passed my hand inside.
Beneath the fabric, the flexible material remained denser than ordinary padding.
"What level?"
"The manufacturer certifies the panels to stop the handgun ammunition listed in their documentation. Standard 9mm rounds across the covered areas, among other things."
She looked directly into my eyes.
"That does not mean you can choose to be shot."
"I know."
"Listen anyway."
Her tone left no room for an automatic response.
I lowered my hand.
Laurie continued:
"The projectile can be stopped and still break a rib. You can lose your breath, fall, and strike something on the way down. Multiple impacts in the same place may degrade the panel. A rifle caliber will probably go through everything. Your head, neck, arms, and legs remain exposed."
She lightly tapped my sternum with her fingertips.
"This coat gives you one additional chance. Not permission to remain in the line of fire."
"Understood."
"And if you take a bullet, even if it does not penetrate, you have the panel and your body examined. You do not go home and decide the pain is tolerable."
I looked at her.
She knew my habits well enough to understand she was describing a real possibility.
"I'll see a doctor."
"Immediately."
"Immediately."
She nodded.
Frank had lowered his eyes toward the old marks across his own chest.
He had been shot dead while protecting Claire.
He made no comment.
Laurie moved toward three other garment bags resting against the wall.
She opened them one by one.
A black suit.
A charcoal-gray suit.
A midnight-blue suit.
"The jackets and waistcoats have been modified," she explained. "The black one has the most complete protection, but it is also the heaviest. The gray prioritizes mobility. The blue is between the two. The trousers have cut-resistant reinforcement along the thighs and the backs of the legs. They are not bulletproof."
I touched the fabric of the black suit.
"How long exactly have you been working on these?"
"Since a little before you took the federal examinations."
"You didn't even know whether they would accept me."
Laurie slowly folded one sleeve.
"I knew you would continue doing this job regardless of the badge."
The answer remained between us.
She had not worked for months because she had been certain of my promotion.
She had worked because she was certain of the danger.
I looked at the trench coat in the mirror.
The off-white contrasted with the dark suit. It resembled neither a police uniform nor military equipment. It protected without announcing its purpose.
Laurie positioned herself behind me.
"Why this color?"
I met her gaze in the mirror.
"You already asked."
"You were in a hurry last time. I received two sentences and an excuse involving an appointment."
I passed my hand along the lapel.
"I do not want to look like I'm hiding."
She waited.
I continued:
"Plainclothes agents often end up dressed the same way. Black, gray, clothes designed not to attract attention. That's useful. But I do not want my entire career built around disappearing inside a room. I work under my own name. I want to be visible when the situation requires it."
"Recognizable."
"Identifiable."
"The difference will depend on what people say about you."
She adjusted the collar.
"At least they'll say your coat hangs properly."
I smiled.
Frank examined my reflection.
"You understand that you have chosen a recognizable silhouette one week after joining the FBI?"
"I do not intend to wear it on every case."
"You had it made off-white and bullet-resistant. You clearly intend to wear it often enough for that clarification to lose most of its value."
I did not answer.
He was not entirely wrong.
Laurie walked toward my ordinary jacket and retrieved the badge.
She passed the chain beneath the trench coat's collar, then brought the case outside.
"Like that. It remains visible and no longer strikes directly against your shirt."
I examined the result.
The dark badge rested in the center of the pale coat.
"You just altered the regulatory appearance of my badge."
"I moved a chain. Stop speaking like your father."
She returned to the garment bags.
"Where are they sending you?"
"Gotham."
Her hands stopped on the zipper.
Half a second.
Then they resumed moving.
"For what?"
"Several linked homicides. The GCPD requested federal assistance."
"A serial killer?"
"It's a possibility."
Laurie closed the black garment bag.
"For how long?"
"One week at minimum. Probably longer."
"Your partner is going with you?"
"Yes. Naomi Pierce."
"The one who wasn't happy about working with you?"
I turned my head.
"I never told you that."
"You told me she respected procedures and wanted to observe your work before forming an opinion. That is your way of describing someone who does not trust you yet."
"She has her reasons."
"Which are?"
I removed the trench coat and carefully placed it on the table.
"She joined the Bureau at twenty-three. She completed every stage in order. She worked to earn her assignments. I arrive after a publicized case, two years as a detective, and an accelerated process."
Laurie looked at me in silence.
"Do you think she is wrong?"
"Not entirely."
"That was not my question."
I took time to consider it.
"She is wrong if she thinks I am here only because of Ten. She is right to verify whether I can work inside a structure that was not built around me."
"And what are you judging her on?"
"The fact that she is judging me before our first case."
"So you are two very intelligent adults each waiting for the other to prove they deserve a chance."
I folded my arms.
"Presented that way, it sounds less professional."
"Many things sound less professional when described honestly."
She placed the three garment bags near the door.
"Do your job. Let her do hers. The rest will come or it won't."
"You should provide Bureau training."
"They could not pay me enough to listen to men in suits explain why a seam is a matter of national security."
She checked the trench coat's buttons one final time.
Then her hand remained on the leather.
"You call me when you arrive."
"I'll call from the hotel."
"Before going to the precinct."
"We have an appointment tomorrow morning."
"So you have time."
"Yes."
She looked up at me.
"Malcolm."
I knew that tone.
"I'll call before beginning anything."
"Good."
I leaned down to kiss her.
She wrapped her arms around me. Her face rested briefly against my shoulder, in the place where the trench coat had rested only seconds earlier.
When she released me, she immediately picked up one garment bag to smooth an imaginary crease.
"Do not deliberately test the coat."
"I wasn't planning to ask someone to shoot me."
She looked at me.
"With you, it is better to clarify."
Frank climbed down from the table.
"She is only half joking."
I picked up the garment bags.
"So am I."
Pierce arrived at the federal garage at six fifty-two.
I had been there since six forty.
She looked at her watch when she saw me beside the vehicle.
No comment.
The trunk already contained our suitcases, two equipment cases, and the secured physical files. I had placed my garment bags flat to prevent the protective panels from bending.
The trench coat rested on the back seat.
Pierce noticed it when she opened the door.
"Is this the coat you mentioned during training?"
"Yes."
She raised the bottom of the garment slightly to judge its weight.
"Integrated protection?"
"Certified flexible panels. Torso, back, and sides. The manufacturer rates them to stop standard 9mm ammunition across the covered areas."
She immediately put down the coat.
"It remains a coat."
"I know."
"I prefer clarifying now rather than after watching you make a stupid decision."
I closed the trunk.
"My mother used similar words."
Pierce picked up the keys from the roof of the car.
"I'm driving."
"The vehicle was assigned to me."
"The sheet only lists the agent responsible for the equipment."
I looked at her.
She held my gaze without visible provocation.
"Do you know the route?" I asked.
"Yes."
I allowed her to keep the keys.
It was not an important concession.
Turning it into a conflict would have been absurd.
Frank settled into the back seat beside the trench coat.
Pierce started the engine.
We left Manhattan before traffic became truly bad. The sky was low and uniformly gray. Light rain followed the windshield without ever becoming strong enough for the wipers to find a comfortable rhythm.
For the first twenty minutes, Pierce drove without speaking.
I reread the files on my tablet.
Frank watched the buildings disappear behind us.
The photograph of Marisol Delgado continued attracting my attention.
The brush in her hand.
The towel around her neck.
The care given to the posture.
I knew this method.
Not enough to state it to someone.
Enough to feel an unpleasant familiarity.
Pierce left the main highway to avoid a traffic delay shown on the GPS.
"Before we arrive, we need to define how we will operate," she said.
I locked the screen.
"All right."
"Gordon jointly leads the investigation. I officially represent the Bureau. Requests for federal resources go through me. Local scenes remain under GCPD authority unless explicitly agreed otherwise."
"Understood."
She kept her eyes on the road.
"When you have a theory, I want to know the level of certainty you are working with. A fact, deduction, intuition, or unverified information must not be presented in the same way."
The request was reasonable.
It also directly touched what Frank and I needed to conceal.
"Very well."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
A truck passed us in a spray of water.
Pierce waited until it moved back into its lane.
"During the exercises, you followed two leads before informing the rest of the group."
"Both produced results."
"That is not sufficient justification."
I looked at her profile.
"No. But it is part of the context."
"A bad method that receives a reward may become more dangerous than a bad method that immediately fails."
I took several seconds before answering.
"I can communicate my level of certainty and warn you before mobilizing resources. In exchange, I want you to reject a lead for a concrete reason, not because my recruitment makes you suspicious."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
She did not answer immediately.
"That is reasonable," she eventually said.
"And if we disagree in front of Gordon or Bullock, we avoid giving them two competing federal positions."
"We settle it privately."
"Quickly."
"According to the urgency."
I nodded.
That was not trust.
It was a framework.
For a first case, it was better than false closeness.
The landscape gradually changed.
Residential areas gave way to industrial land, warehouses, chimneys, and railways that all seemed to run toward the same direction.
A sign announced Gotham.
Frank leaned toward the window.
I immediately felt the reaction through our link.
Not full recognition.
A weight.
Old images rose inside my memory at the same time as his.
Gargoyles.
Black towers.
A long, dark car.
A man in a cape.
Comic book covers.
Scenes from films watched in another life, on screens that now existed only inside my memories.
Pierce noticed my attention.
"Have you been here before?"
"No."
"You are looking as though you recognize something."
I turned slightly toward her.
"The city has a very distinctive visual reputation."
She accepted the answer without comment.
Frank continued watching.
"I remember Gordon. Bullock too."
"So do I."
"The versions did not always agree. Bullock could be corrupt, brutal, loyal, or all three depending on the story. Gordon was generally one of the few honest men inside the GCPD."
"And the killer?"
He looked at the file resting on my knees.
"Something is returning. A thin man. Bald or shaved. Scars everywhere."
The same memory moved inside me.
A blade.
Vertical marks crossed by a diagonal line.
Bodies positioned like mannequins.
The name remained behind a door.
"I remember it too."
Frank turned toward me.
"What had you seen?"
"Films, television series. A few comics. He called the murders liberations, I think."
"Yes. People were robots. Shells. He believed he was freeing them."
We still did not say the name.
The river appeared beyond the barriers.
Gotham stood on the opposite bank.
New York rose toward the sky because it lacked space. Gotham seemed to have stacked itself upward to prevent its streets from breathing. Dark stone towers dominated the warehouses. Elevated roads cut the light between neighborhoods. Metal arches connected certain buildings. Gargoyles watched the administrative facades with hostility sculpted across several generations.
Wayne Tower stood at the center, brighter than the neighborhoods surrounding it.
The sky had the same color as the river.
Pierce slowed behind a line of vehicles.
"The Bureau was not joking about the reputation."
She was mainly talking about traffic.
I was looking at barred windows, blackened facades, and sirens already visible in the distance.
"No."
Frank remained silent.
He no longer felt like making jokes about the architecture.
Something in the victims' photographs and Gotham's silhouette continued pulling the memory closer.
I could feel the name arriving.
GCPD headquarters occupied a gray stone building too massive for the square on which it had been built.
A broad flight of steps led toward bronze doors. Two statues represented justice without a blindfold, their eyes facing the street. The artist had probably intended to evoke vigilance.
The result looked more like a threat.
Patrol vehicles occupied the sidewalk. Several bore collision marks old enough to have become part of their paint.
Inside, the lobby smelled of damp paper, coffee, and clothes that had dried too many times on their owners.
Telephones rang without interruption. Police officers crossed the space carrying files beneath their arms. A handcuffed man shouted that his cousin knew the mayor. Nobody appeared impressed.
Pierce presented our badges at reception.
The officer examined mine.
"Ten."
I retrieved the case.
"Beaumont is enough."
He looked up.
"Good. We already have enough nicknames here."
Frank stood near the metal detector.
"At least the city announces its themes quickly."
I did not answer.
A uniformed officer escorted us to the third floor.
Major Crimes occupied a room crowded with partitions, maps, and boards covered with photographs. The desks stood close enough for every conversation to belong to several people. The light through the windows remained gray despite the hour.
James Gordon waited inside a glass-walled office.
He was taller than in certain memories, younger than in most.
Red hair darkened by several brown strands, short mustache, rectangular glasses. His beige raincoat rested on the back of a chair. His shirt had been ironed that morning, but the sleeves already bore the folds of a long day.
Harvey Bullock stood near the board.
Broad-shouldered, wrinkled brown coat, loosened tie. His face appeared constructed around a long-standing lack of sleep. Two days of beard darkened his jaw. His hat rested on the table beside a cup of coffee.
Gordon offered us his hand.
"Agent Pierce. Agent Beaumont. Thank you for coming."
Pierce shook it.
"Captain."
I did the same.
Gordon's gaze briefly dropped toward my badge, then rose.
"Beaumont. I read your file."
"I hope they sent you the short version."
His expression remained neutral.
The remark immediately struck me as unnecessary.
Not offensive.
Merely misplaced inside a room where four dead people were already waiting for us on the wall.
I continued without attempting to save it:
"We are ready to begin."
Gordon nodded and gestured toward Bullock.
"Detective Harvey Bullock. He was working on two of the cases before they were linked. He will lead the operational GCPD component under my authority."
Bullock shook our hands.
"Did the federal agents bring the complete files?"
"Physical copies and database access," Pierce answered. "The interstate requests are ready."
"Good."
He made no remark about our suits, ages, or Washington.
That made me slightly revise the first impression created by his coat.
Gordon took the seat at the head of the table.
"Before we begin, responsibilities must be clear. I retain command of local scenes and GCPD personnel. Agent Pierce takes charge of federal resources, outside requests, and interstate elements. Major decisions will be made jointly."
Pierce opened her notebook.
"One common timeline, one shared evidence log, and clear attribution for the source of every piece of information."
"Agreed," Gordon answered.
I placed our file on the table.
"Theories remain distinct from established facts. Unconfirmed information is marked accordingly."
Bullock looked at me.
"You think we don't know the difference?"
"No. I am clarifying the method all of us will use."
Gordon intervened before the sentence became a conflict.
"That works for me. No department keeps a useful lead inside its own drawer. Nothing leaves the task force without its dissemination being recorded."
The final sentence struck me as precise.
I remembered it.
Bullock switched on the projector.
The four photographs appeared on the wall.
We began the files again from the beginning.
Ernest Vale left his office at 6:12 p.m. His transit card was used nineteen minutes later. The bus camera had been out of service for nine days. No witness noticed who sat near him.
"The newspaper wasn't his," Bullock explained. "We found it in a garbage bin two blocks away. No usable prints."
Pierce checked the report.
"So the killer probably brought it for staging."
"Or picked it up at the scene," Bullock answered.
"Both possibilities remain open."
Marisol Delgado left her conference at 8:50 p.m. She took a taxi to the hotel. The electronic lock showed a single opening using her card.
"No second card," Gordon said. "No visible damage."
"She may have allowed him inside," I said.
Bullock nodded.
"Reception did not see him. The service stairs have no camera coverage."
Owen Kessler had traveled by ferry. His wallet, watch, and phone remained on him. The paper bag placed beside him contained a sandwich and a used book.
Tasha Green left the kitchen at 11:16 p.m. A coworker found her six minutes later in the rear room, seated with her phone inside her hand.
"The screen was unlocked after her death," Gordon explained. "Probably with her fingerprint. No messages sent. No recently opened files."
I moved the photographs closer.
The wounds varied slightly, but all were located at the neck. Thin blade. Rapid attack. Little struggle.
The killer moved close enough to kill with a blade and calmly enough to arrange the body afterward.
Frank stood behind Bullock.
His expression changed when Tasha Green's image appeared.
The name rose inside me before he even spoke.
Victor Zsasz.
Not as a deduction.
As a memory.
A comic panel showing a pale man covered in scars.
A film scene.
A voice declaring life an illusion and death a liberation.
Cuts grouped in sets of five across his own body.
Frank raised his eyes toward me.
"Zsasz."
The name was already inside my mind.
"I know."
"The marks. One for every victim."
"The bodies positioned in ordinary gestures. Victims selected randomly. He believes he is freeing them."
Frank looked at me with different attention.
"You remember him better than I do."
"Certain details. Not this version."
We did not know whether the man in this continuity was truly named Victor Zsasz.
We did not know whether his history matched the films, comics, or no known version at all.
But the method was too precise.
I now had a name I could not say.
Pierce probably noticed the change in my posture.
"Did you notice something?"
Our agreement was less than three hours old.
Level of certainty.
Source.
Nature of the information.
I looked at the photographs.
"A theory about victim selection."
"What theory?"
"We are looking for connections inside their lives. It is possible the only connection lies in their accessibility."
Bullock narrowed his eyes.
"You think he chooses them randomly."
"I think we should test that possibility. The absence of a link does not yet prove randomness, but the victims' diversity is beginning to become information in itself."
Pierce turned toward the map.
"Three used a major terminal or transportation network. Green worked near Burnley Station."
Gordon examined the markers.
"He could select a person during the journey."
"Or first choose an environment where he knows he can act," I said. "His victims may be random without his scenes being random."
Frank continued:
"It was him. People did not need to have done anything to him. Existing was enough."
I kept that part to myself.
Pierce examined the photograph of Marisol Delgado.
"The staging remains the most consistent feature."
"Yes."
She placed the four images side by side.
"He does not truly hide the bodies. He makes them temporarily ordinary."
Gordon approached the wall.
"The first witnesses think they are sleeping, waiting, or working."
"The delay may help him leave," Bullock said.
"But he could obtain the same advantage by selecting an isolated place," I answered. "He prefers them to remain visible."
Pierce looked at Tasha Green's hands around the phone.
"He wants someone to see them before understanding."
That sentence already approached Zsasz's logic.
Not completely.
Enough to make the following silence heavier.
Gordon's telephone rang.
He answered immediately.
"Gordon."
He listened for several seconds.
His face changed.
"Nobody touches the body. Separate the witnesses and close both exits. We're coming."
He hung up.
Bullock had already grabbed his coat.
"Same method?"
"A man found inside an East End diner. Seated before a cup. The waitress thought he was sleeping."
Pierce closed her notebook.
"How long ago?"
"The doctor is not there yet."
I picked up my trench coat.
The off-white looked almost misplaced beneath the gray GCPD lighting.
Then I thought of Laurie.
One additional chance.
Not permission.
I put on the coat.
Frank was already looking toward the door.
"If it is him, the scene will be more useful than all the memories we can mix together."
"I know."
This time, I asked him nothing else.
We had a name.
More importantly, we needed evidence.
The diner stood beneath an elevated subway line whose black beams absorbed almost all the light.
Rain struck the rails, windows, and vehicle roofs with different sounds. Every passing train made the sign above the door tremble.
HARLEY'S DINER.
The H flickered intermittently.
Two patrol cars blocked the street. An ambulance waited farther away with its doors closed. An officer held the access log beneath an awning too narrow to protect him properly.
We placed protective covers over our shoes.
Gordon stopped us before the door.
"White man, forty to fifty years old. No confirmed identification. Seven customers, two employees. One customer left before the staff understood what was happening. We have a card payment."
Pierce looked at the witnesses gathered inside the neighboring business.
"Have they spoken to each other?"
"The first officers separated them. Some had already spoken before the call."
"I want an exact list of who spoke with whom and when."
Gordon pointed toward an officer.
"Handle that with her."
Pierce left immediately.
Bullock opened the diner door.
The smell of burnt coffee, cold grease, lemon cleaner, and blood arrived before the image.
The restaurant was narrow. A long counter occupied the left wall. Six red booths lined the right side, separated by partitions high enough to hide hands but not faces. The kitchen connected to the dining area through a rectangular opening. A service door stood at the back beside the restrooms.
The victim sat inside the fourth booth.
Brown coat closed to the sternum.
Gray scarf around the neck.
Hands placed around a white cup.
Head tilted to the right.
From three meters away, he was sleeping.
From one meter away, the blood beneath the booth destroyed the illusion.
I stopped before the boundary marked on the floor.
Technicians photographed the scene. A woman in a white suit worked near the shoes. A second technician measured the distance between the cup and the edge of the table.
A train passed overhead.
The rumbling covered every voice.
Four seconds.
The spoons trembled inside their containers.
The window shook.
Four seconds were enough to conceal a rapid movement, a severed breath, a cup striking the table lightly.
I examined the victim.
The throat had probably been opened with one precise gesture, then concealed by the collar and scarf. The hands were too symmetrical. The left thumb rested at an angle living muscles would not naturally maintain.
Zsasz had not merely killed.
He had corrected the posture.
"He was sitting opposite," I said.
Bullock pointed toward the empty booth.
"That's our initial theory too. A second cup was there, but the waitress cleared it before noticing the blood."
"Did she wipe the table?"
"Part of it. She thought the customer had left and the other one was sleeping."
I looked at the still-damp surface beneath the light.
It was not a procedural failure.
Not really.
The scene had been designed so an ordinary person would perform the ordinary actions that destroyed part of the evidence.
Frank separated from me.
His form crossed the scene boundary without moving a single grain of dust.
He passed behind the counter, inspected the kitchen, then crossed through the service door.
I kept our link open enough to receive his impressions without completely overlaying his vision onto mine.
Pierce returned near the entrance carrying a witness list.
"The primary waitress saw the victim with another man. I'll interview her as soon as she is stable enough."
"Description?" Gordon asked.
"Thin, dark coat, shaved head. She is uncertain about the age."
Victor Zsasz.
The name remained silent behind my teeth.
The technician looked up at us.
"Primary wound to the neck. Probably lateral. Very little visible struggle. We are waiting for the medical examiner before moving the scarf."
"One attack?" Gordon asked.
"Possibly two. Impossible to say without examination."
I looked toward the opposite seat.
"He may have waited for the train."
Bullock followed my gaze toward the ceiling.
"The noise covers everything."
"And customers often look away when the room starts shaking."
A second train passed almost immediately.
The entire diner vibrated.
Frank returned from the rear door.
"The alley is full of mud. Nobody has used this exit since the rain began. No marks on the interior threshold, no water tracked inside."
I moved toward the back without crossing undocumented areas.
A technician was already photographing the threshold.
The metal plate was dry inside. The mud beyond remained smooth, marked only by drops falling from the gutter.
"When did the rain start?" I asked.
Bullock checked his notebook.
"A little before one."
"Estimated time of death?"
The technician answered from the booth:
"Between one twenty and one forty for now."
I pointed toward the threshold.
"The rear exit probably was not used. No mud, no water, no visible tracks in the alley since the rain began."
Pierce approached.
She examined the area without looking at me.
"Level of certainty?"
"Deduction supported by the initial observations. To be confirmed with photographs and a complete examination of the alley."
She nodded.
"So the main entrance becomes the priority."
"Yes."
No smile.
No remark.
We had defined a method and were applying it.
That suited me.
Frank remained beside the door.
"He left in front of everyone."
"Probably."
"He does not flee like someone who just killed. In my memories, he did not believe he was committing a crime."
I looked at the body seated before its cup.
"He believed he was helping."
"Liberating. That was the word."
The word passed between us with a taste colder than the diner.
Pierce brought the waitress beneath the awning twenty minutes later.
The young woman was perhaps twenty-two. Her brown hair had been tied too high, and several strands clung to her cheeks. She wore a pale-yellow uniform beneath a gray cardigan. Her hands constantly pulled at the sleeves.
Pierce stood slightly to one side so she did not block the woman's field of vision.
Gordon remained nearby but allowed her to lead.
"Lena, I am going to review certain points. I know you already spoke to the officers. Tell me only what you remember, not what you think you should have seen."
The young woman nodded.
"The other man was already sitting when the victim entered?"
"I think so. Yes. I had placed a glass of water in front of him."
"How did the victim join him?"
Lena frowned.
"The man raised his hand. Not like they were friends. More like he was offering him the seat. The other gentleman looked around, then sat."
"Did you hear their conversation?"
"Parts of it. With the trains, you cannot hear everything."
Pierce waited.
She did not fill the silence for her.
Lena inhaled.
"The thin man asked whether he was happy."
Gordon looked at Bullock.
Pierce kept the same tone.
"Do you remember the exact sentence?"
"He said something like, 'Are you happy living this way?' I'm not certain."
"What did the other man answer?"
"That he only wanted to drink his coffee."
Her eyes moved toward the diner door.
"I thought the thin man was selling something. Or trying to talk about religion. He was very calm."
"Calm in what way?" I asked.
Pierce turned her head slightly toward me, then back to the witness.
Lena thought.
"Like nothing could surprise him. He didn't look around. He only watched the other gentleman."
Zsasz often spoke to his victims.
In certain versions, he almost tried to obtain their agreement before killing them.
Not because he doubted himself.
Because he wanted their final moment to confirm his philosophy.
Pierce continued:
"Describe him."
"White. Thin. Taller than me. Thirty-five, maybe forty. Shaved head. Black coat. Thin gloves."
"His face?"
"Pale. Hollow cheeks. I didn't look closely."
Shame entered her voice.
Pierce lowered her notebook slightly.
"You had no reason to memorize a customer. The scene was prepared so nobody would understand what was happening."
Lena swallowed with difficulty.
"He left me a five-dollar tip."
"In cash?"
"Yes. Beneath his glass."
Bullock wrote down the information.
Pierce asked:
"Did you notice an injury, tattoo, or anything distinctive?"
Lena rubbed her thumb over her own wrist.
"Scars."
Frank drew closer.
Pierce kept her voice calm.
"Where?"
"On his forearm. His sleeve rose when he took out the money. There were many lines."
"Lines in which direction?"
Lena traced several vertical marks across her skin with one finger.
"Like this. And another across them, I think. Several groups."
The final piece of memory locked into place.
Four lines.
A fifth diagonal.
One mark for every victim.
Zsasz's body as a ledger.
Frank said nothing.
He did not need to.
I already knew the meaning.
Pierce asked how many groups Lena had seen.
She did not know.
Her gaze became unfocused.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Pierce answered. "You gave us something important."
Gordon asked whether she would agree to review images and work with a sketch artist. She nodded.
When she had been escorted away, Bullock looked toward the rain.
"A thin man covered in scars. Finally something we can distribute."
"Not widely," Gordon answered. "If the press obtains that detail, we will receive hundreds of useless reports and the suspect will know what the witness saw."
Pierce examined the diner's facade.
The interior camera was visible above the register. Old and poorly positioned.
Then her gaze crossed the street.
A pawnshop occupied the storefront opposite. A newer camera had been installed beneath its sign.
"The exterior camera may have recorded the entrance," she said.
Bullock followed her gaze.
"The angle mainly covers the sidewalk."
Pierce moved slightly beneath the awning.
"The diner's window reflects part of the interior. We may obtain a second angle, even if distorted."
I looked at the camera, then at the window.
The line matched.
"Yes."
Pierce turned toward Gordon.
"We need to secure the video before it is overwritten."
Gordon immediately sent an officer with her.
Frank watched Pierce cross the street.
"She is good."
"Yes."
"You seem irritated you didn't notice it first."
"I am irritated that I didn't notice it. That is not the same thing."
Frank watched me for several seconds.
"That is exactly the same thing."
I ignored him.
The moment did not justify a discussion about my ego.
We might have an image of Victor Zsasz.
The video was copied two hours later.
The pawnshop owner agreed to hand over the footage after Pierce explained precisely the scope of his consent and how the copy would be logged. He then spent several minutes comparing his system with the GCPD's.
Bullock allowed him to speak.
Evidence sometimes carried a price not listed in budgets.
The joint task force now occupied an old meeting room on the third floor. A whiteboard covered an entire wall. Pierce had written down arrival times, witness positions, and possible routes.
The GCPD video technician played the recordings.
The interior camera showed only grainy shapes. The suspect remained a dark silhouette opposite the victim.
The exterior camera provided more.
Reflections from vehicles and signs overlaid the diner window. The suspect's face distorted in the glass.
His arm appeared clearly for less than one second when he paid the bill.
Pierce leaned toward the screen.
"Stop. Go back three frames."
The technician reversed.
A dark sleeve had risen over a pale forearm.
Several lines crossed the skin.
"Enlarge it," Gordon requested.
"The image will degrade."
"Do what you can."
Pixels filled the screen.
The pattern remained visible.
Four nearly parallel lines.
A fifth diagonal.
A second group above them.
Part of a third near the elbow.
Pierce remained still.
"They are tally marks."
Bullock moved closer.
"The image isn't clear enough to say that."
"The first group is readable. The second follows the same pattern."
Gordon removed his glasses and slowly cleaned them.
"A tally of what?"
Nobody answered immediately.
Frank stood beside the screen.
His face contained no remaining hesitation.
"Each mark is a victim."
I knew.
Memories of films and comics overlaid the real photographs.
Victor Zsasz cut himself after every murder.
He did not take a trophy from his victims.
He carried the count on his own body.
Pierce turned toward me.
"Your opinion?"
I looked at the scars.
"Strong theory: the marks count events he considers significant. Murder is the first possibility, but we should avoid recording it as fact before confirmation."
Bullock pointed toward the screen.
"We have five victims. He already has more than ten lines on part of one arm."
"And nothing proves all his scars are visible," Gordon said.
Silence fell inside the room.
Pierce picked up a marker.
"We need to search for unlinked homicides matching the staging."
"Not only cases classified as homicides," I added.
Bullock turned toward me.
"Why?"
"Because the first effect of his scenes is delaying understanding. Some bodies may have been moved before anyone properly documented their position. Some deaths may initially have been treated as overdoses, accidents, or unrelated assaults."
Bullock looked toward the archive wall visible through the glass.
"That represents thousands of files."
Pierce wrote several criteria.
"We narrow it by neck wound, bladed weapon, discovery in a seated position or simulated activity. We also search the wording of initial witnesses: 'I thought he was sleeping,' 'she wasn't answering,' 'he was waiting.'"
Gordon nodded.
"Old reports do not always code staging. Witness language may be more useful."
Bullock picked up his hat.
"I'll see what Archives can produce quickly."
"Begin with ten years," I said.
He stopped.
"Why ten?"
Because Zsasz might have begun long before the four known cases.
Because his body eventually became covered in scars in almost every version I remembered.
Because limiting the search to three years would mean asking our memories to respect our resources.
I pointed toward the image.
"The visible marks do not all appear recent. Some are paler and wider. If they correspond to crimes, nothing allows us to assume the series began this year."
Pierce examined the screen.
"That is defensible."
Bullock placed his hat on his head.
"I will not thank you when Archives asks why I want ten years of misclassified deaths."
"Tell them we are trying to prevent the next one."
He did not answer.
The door closed behind him.
Gordon examined the timeline.
"We also need to work on selection."
Pierce circled the terminals.
"Three victims used transportation networks. The fourth worked near a station."
"The suspect may identify victims in those areas," I said. "But he may also prepare specific environments and choose the first suitable person."
"Suitable how?" Gordon asked.
"Alone, accessible, willing to accept a conversation. Not necessarily physically vulnerable. He approaches without creating an alarm."
Pierce looked at the photograph of Caleb Wirth.
"He asks whether he is happy."
"He probably wants to speak before killing."
"To establish a connection?"
I took one second.
The private answer was clear.
To confirm his philosophy.
To present death as a logical conclusion.
"Perhaps to justify the act in his own mind," I said. "He does not appear to act during an explosion of anger. He constructs an interaction."
Gordon crossed his arms.
"He does not specifically hate the victims."
"Nothing indicates that."
"Then why kill them?"
Frank looked at the photograph.
"Because they are alive."
The sentence entered my mind with simple coldness.
I answered cautiously:
"It is possible existence itself is the grievance."
Pierce turned toward me.
"That is a significant psychological theory based on a single sentence."
"Yes. I would not place it inside the official profile yet."
She held my gaze for several seconds.
Then she wrote at the bottom of the board:
POSSIBLE PHILOSOPHY, REQUIRES CORROBORATION.
She was not accepting the conclusion.
She was accepting that it deserved testing.
That was precisely what I had requested.
Bullock returned one hour later carrying an archive box covered with dust.
He placed it on the table.
"Denise Rowland. Forty-eight years old. Found inside a Coventry laundromat three years ago. Seated in front of a machine, an open magazine across her knees. The first witness thought she was asleep."
He removed a photograph.
The woman sat on an orange plastic chair. Her head rested against the wall. A magazine partly covered her abdomen. The wound to her neck almost disappeared beneath her coat.
Frank closed his eyes.
"It's him."
Pierce placed the image beside the five others.
"Same principle."
"The file was handled as a knife assault," Bullock continued. "A homeless man from the neighborhood was questioned, then released. No weapon. No motive. The case went into archives after eighteen months."
Gordon reviewed the report.
"Three years."
"I have two other cases to verify. A man found inside a movie theater booth five years ago. A woman in a clinic waiting room eighteen months ago. The wounds are not described exactly the same way, but discovery was delayed."
Pierce looked at the marks on the screen.
"We entered in the middle of the series."
I picked up Denise Rowland's photograph.
The staging was less precise than the diner scene. Her hand had slipped from the magazine. Blood remained visible near the collar.
He might have learned.
Or Denise might not belong to the series.
Private knowledge could not replace material examination.
"We need to reexamine the scene, photographs, autopsy, and preserved evidence," I said. "Compare the angle of the wound and search for common elements with the other files."
Gordon nodded.
"Bullock, determine what remains in evidence."
"I'm on it."
Pierce checked the time.
It was almost ten at night.
Rain struck the GCPD windows.
We had begun the day with four dead people.
We now had five confirmed, one likely previous case, and two more to examine.
Victor Zsasz still did not exist inside the file.
Not under that name.
Yet his presence already covered the wall.
Gordon closed Denise Rowland's folder.
"I need to verify something before leaving."
Pierce raised her eyes.
"Related to the investigation?"
Gordon hesitated.
Barely.
"Possibly."
He collected several copies from the table.
The photograph of Caleb Wirth.
The image of the scars.
The diner's preliminary report.
Denise Rowland's photograph.
I followed the documents with my eyes.
"Where are those copies going?"
Gordon placed them inside a folder.
"To a source."
"A GCPD source?" Pierce asked.
"A protected source."
His tone indicated he would offer nothing more.
A confidential source was not abnormal.
The local commander could protect an identity as long as the information produced was subsequently documented and verified. But Gordon had just taken several sensitive items from a joint investigation less than twelve hours after demanding that no information leave without its dissemination being recorded.
Bullock avoided our gaze.
Not dramatically.
He merely concentrated on the archive box with far too much attention.
Pierce placed down her pen.
"That dissemination needs to appear in the log."
"It will appear if the source produces something usable," Gordon answered.
I immediately disliked the wording.
It created an area where information could leave without a trace as long as nothing usable returned.
"The dissemination exists even if the source says nothing," I said.
Gordon looked at me.
"I know my obligations, Agent Beaumont."
His tone remained calm.
The door closed behind him several seconds later.
Pierce examined the folder he had left open on the table.
"He did not enter the copies into the log."
"No."
Bullock lifted the archive box.
"Gordon knows what he is doing."
Pierce turned toward him.
"That is not an answer to the question."
Bullock held the box against himself.
"In this city, certain people only speak if their names remain far from reports."
"Confidential sources also exist at the Bureau," she answered. "Their identities can be protected without making the movement of evidence disappear."
Bullock did not answer.
He left the room carrying the box.
Frank followed the door with his gaze.
"You are thinking about Batman."
"Yes."
"So am I."
I returned to the map.
"It isn't enough."
"For now."
Pierce returned to her keyboard.
"We finish the interstate requests. Then we speak with Gordon tomorrow morning."
"Agreed."
She looked at me.
"You genuinely agree?"
"Yes. A protected source is not automatically a problem. The way he removed the documents may be one. We will ask him to clarify."
Pierce studied me for a moment.
"Very well."
We worked for another forty minutes.
The crime locations now appeared on an enlarged map of Gotham. All stood near a transportation network or a place frequented by people alone.
I was drafting a national comparison request when Frank left the wall.
He moved toward the window.
I felt his attention before looking up.
A white light crossed the room.
Not from a vehicle.
Too high.
Too powerful.
The beam climbed into the low clouds above the building.
A black shape appeared at its center.
Two wings.
A head with pointed ears.
A bat.
The Bat-Signal.
I recognized it immediately.
There was nothing to verify.
No other reasonable interpretation.
The projector stood on the roof of GCPD headquarters.
Gordon had just left the task force carrying copies of our file.
My chair moved backward violently and struck the partition.
Pierce stood.
"Beaumont?"
I grabbed the trench coat from the back of my chair.
"The roof."
She looked at the symbol beyond the windows.
Her expression closed.
"Wait."
I put on the coat.
"No."
"We do not know what is happening up there."
I passed the badge chain over the collar so it remained visible.
"I know what that projector means."
Pierce moved around the table.
"Then we go together."
I pushed open the door.
The evidence log.
The folder removed.
Photographs from an active federal investigation.
A masked civilian summoned to the roof of a police headquarters by a captain officially co-leading our task force.
The anger arrived without hesitation.
Frank turned toward me when I pulled on our link.
I did not ask him.
His spectral form suddenly distorted, crossed the space between us, and sank into my chest. His consciousness unfolded behind my eyes with a jolt of surprise.
He could have resisted for one moment.
Not prevented the recall.
Frank thought independently. He felt, decided, and could disagree with me. But he remained connected to my existence, my soul, and my powers. I could force the fusion.
I rarely did.
I did not have time to offer him a choice.
"You could have warned me."
I opened the stairwell door.
"No time."
He understood immediately.
No question.
No debate.
His presence reorganized itself inside my muscles.
"The roof is six floors above. The coat shifts your weight backward. Use the railings."
I launched myself into the stairs.
Pierce entered behind me.
"Beaumont, wait!"
I took the first steps three at a time.
The trench coat weighed across my shoulders, but Laurie had distributed the load so my hips remained free. The flexible panels followed my movement without folding.
Frank reinforced my footing.
Not an outside force dragging me upward.
A second will committed to every movement.
Ted had taught me to climb while keeping my center of gravity under control, not to waste energy jumping too high, and to use directional changes rather than suffer them.
Frank added his strength to that structure.
I seized the railing at the first landing, allowed my momentum to pivot around the post, and pushed forward before my outer foot fully touched the floor.
The metal groaned beneath my hand.
Pierce climbed behind me, faster than most agents I had known. She maintained her breathing for two floors before the distance began to grow.
"Beaumont!"
I did not slow down.
Gordon had demanded one timeline.
One log.
No information withheld between departments.
Then he had removed photographs of our victims to give them to a man without a badge, warrant, name officially connected to his actions, or obligation to answer for them.
It stank.
This was not a theoretical discussion about the limits of procedure.
A killer was choosing strangers at random and perhaps carving every death into his own body. Information from the investigation could not circulate to an outside actor simply because Gordon considered him useful.
Fourth floor.
My breathing shortened.
Heat accumulated beneath the reinforced suit.
Frank absorbed part of the muscular strain, but my body remained the engine. My thighs burned. The badge struck the trench coat's leather despite the chain my mother had shortened.
Fifth floor.
"Final landing after this one. Seventeen steps."
I grabbed the railing.
My foot slipped slightly on a wet patch.
Frank corrected my right footing before my ankle gave way.
I continued without losing more than one second.
The projector's light filtered beneath the upper door.
Seventeen steps.
I crossed them in five strides.
I struck the metal bar with my forearm.
The door opened with a crash.
Wind entered beneath my coat.
The rain had returned, fine and almost horizontal. It crossed the projector's white beam and became luminous dust around the black bat suspended inside the clouds.
Gotham stretched beneath the roof.
Dark towers.
Yellow windows.
Elevated roads.
Water tanks.
Sirens muffled by height and wind.
Gordon stood near the projector, his raincoat whipping around his legs.
Facing him, a black silhouette dominated the edge of the roof.
Tall.
Motionless.
A heavy cape fell from his shoulders and blended into the building's shadow. Two pointed ears extended from the mask. The light revealed only his jaw and part of his gloves.
Batman.
I had known that symbol in another life.
I probably knew the man beneath the mask.
But no image, film, or page had ever reproduced the weight of his real presence.
I gave it only one second.
On the projector's base rested the photographs of our victims.
Caleb Wirth inside the diner.
Denise Rowland inside the laundromat.
The reflection of the scarred forearm.
Batman held the preliminary report between his gloves.
Gordon turned abruptly.
"Beaumont?"
I stepped fully onto the roof.
The door closed behind me, momentarily cutting off Pierce's footsteps inside the stairwell.
"Captain, tell me you are not handing evidence from an active federal investigation to a masked civilian."
Gordon's face closed.
"This is neither the place nor the time."
I looked at the projector, the giant bat in the sky, then the documents spread between them.
"You switched on a signal above the police headquarters and brought our evidence here. You chose both."
Batman slowly placed the report back on the base.
His voice was low.
Controlled.
"Victor Zsasz has already killed more people than those in your files."
The name taught me nothing.
Frank and I already knew it.
But hearing it here meant something else.
Batman knew Zsasz.
He might know his real identity, history, and habits.
And Gordon had chosen to give him our evidence before sharing that information with his federal co-directors.
I stepped toward them.
"Then you will explain how you know that name. Afterward, Captain Gordon will explain why a man whose identity we officially do not know possesses our photographs and reports."
Batman did not move.
"You are wasting time."
The anger that had carried me up the stairs became colder.
Frank tightened inside my muscles.
"I am a federal agent assigned to this investigation. You are a man in a costume holding evidence in your hands. The time we are losing began before I reached this roof."
Gordon moved slightly between us.
"Beaumont, enough."
The metal door opened behind me.
Pierce emerged onto the roof, breathing hard, one hand still resting on the bar.
Her gaze moved from me to Gordon, then to Batman and the documents.
I did not take my eyes off the masked man.
"No," I said. "It is beginning."