I’ve been accused of madness often in my life. Let it be known that any rumors of my mental instability are utterly false, and considering what I’ve seen over the past few months, that’s an impressive statement.
My life has taken some admittedly queer turns. After my time as the best and brightest mind in the software trade, I became a confidence man in my dear cesspool of a hometown, Gotham City. It was home to a unique brand of criminals; ones who almost obsessively craved attention, to the point of dressing up in ridiculous costumes as they committed their ludicrous crimes. Naturally, I chose to follow that trend and became the Riddler, King of Conundrums! You should’ve seen the outfit, it was a masterpiece; sharp, elegant, and with just the right hint of the uncanny to make it memorable.
My next venture was less profitable. I departed from dear old Gotham and joined a cabal of supervillains, endeavoring to use an alien invasion to seize power in the world. Yes, it was one of my more foolish ventures (and I once tried to buy out Kord Industries by taking the owner to a bar and getting him plastered. Teddy Kord wouldn’t drink a beer if he was in the damn Sahara), but I believed in Lex Luthor’s plan. He had a good, albeit unnaturally bald, head on his shoulders. However, when he shot me and left me for dead, it put something of a strain on our business partnership.
I woke up some time later with amnesia. It was terrifying, to not know anything about myself, to not know anything about the world around me. I was like a child. And then I met the mother. She took me in, helped me remember who I was, and then indoctrinated me into a cult. The Cult of Blood. Or Church of Blood. Honestly, the whole time is kind of a blur. I remember fighting some people in a graveyard, possibly in Las Vegas, then we were somewhere else fighting the same people, I think I had superpowers, we escaped, it was all a big…thing. I don’t even know how I got away. But, here I am powerless but for my mind, and back in Gotham City.
My name is Edward Nigma (anyone who tells you otherwise is damned liar). Folks call me the Riddler. And the next riddle I have to ask is: what does a man do after he’s been betrayed, killed, brainwashed, and discarded?* * * * * *
The woman was dead when Edward Nigma stumbled onto her. She was in an alley between a scummy bar and what was once a pizzeria, lying face up behind a dumpster. A swarm of flies was buzzing around her corpse like a chainsaw. Her blonde hair was filthy, and there was blood on her shirt and her arms, but what drew Edward’s attention were her eyes. They were wide open, dried and bloodshot, and there was an unmistakable eeriness to them.
Edward cocked his head to one side as he looked at her and raised an eyebrow. A cynical man would have said that this was just another piece of signature Gotham City artwork. Edward, however, had not yet grown accustomed to the sight of a murdered corpse lying in the streets. He knelt to inspect the woman, his curiosity overwhelming him, when he was suddenly stopped by an angry voice that barked, “
Get away from her!”
He jumped and instinctively held his cane up as a defense. The man who spoke to him was thick, with a strong jaw line under his brown stubble. He wore a tan trench coat and fedora and almost growled when he spoke. “Who are you?”
“Hugo, Hugo Cress” Edward answered immediately. The pseudonym was well rehearsed.
“Uh huh,” the man in the trench coat and fedora grumbled. “Well let’s see exactly what you did here, Hugo Cress.”
He shoved Edward aside and knelt by the body to inspect it himself. After surveying the woman for a second, he let out a heavy sigh, took off his fedora, and shook his head. There was something unnatural about the way he took off his hat, something about that simple action was strange to Edward. He spoke up. “Excuse me, who are you?”
The man snorted. He looked back at Edward and said, “Coleman Clay, I’m a private investigator. This woman was a friend of mine, and I think you killed her,
didn’t you?” He barked the last two words so suddenly that Edward jumped.
“No, I just found her like that, I swear.”
“Don’t lie to me, boy,” he stood up, put back his hat with the same strangeness to it, grabbed Edward by his plain black jacket, and slammed him against the brick wall of the tavern. “I’ll blow your damn head off if you lie to me. Now tell me true: did you kill her?”
Edward had already died once in his life; this stranger didn’t scare him at all. He glowered at Coleman Clay and said, “No.”
Clay eyed him, and Edward met his stare. The pair held still for a moment, before finally Clay let go, dropping Edward roughly on the ground. The investigator ignored him and returned to the woman. He produced a pencil and paper from the pocket of his trench coat, licked the tip of the pencil, and began to jot down notes, speaking aloud as he did. “Victim’s name is Emily Reese, discovered at approximately 6:10, on Stern Avenue between 5th and 6th Street, allegedly by a Hugo Cress. Cause of death is multiple stab wounds–”
“Wrong,” Edward interjected as he stood up and brushed himself off. He was far from a fan of these plain black clothes but he’d be damned if he let himself walk around dirty. Image was everything, although there did seem to be a mud stain that he couldn’t quite get off.
Clay bristled at the sound of his voice and slowly turned his head. “Excuse me?” he asked, almost as a threat.
“The stabbings were made post-mortem,” Edward continued as he picked up his cane. “There’s not enough blood there for them to have been made when she was alive. The body bleeds more when there’s a beating heart.”
“Hey, who’s the detective here?” Clay spat. “When I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you.”
“It’s not opinion, it’s fact,” Edward’s voice was thick with disdain. “Here’s another fact: the murder didn’t happen here. No blood on the walls, on the ground, barely any near the body. Either the killer believes in cleanliness, or he/she is jumping through some hoops to throw investigators off his/her trail. I can see that it’s working on the less…exceptional of his/her pursuers.”
Edward closed his statement with a smirk that was bound to rile up Clay’s blood. It worked better than he hoped; the investigator stared daggers at him, stood up, and rushed him again. This time, Edward took a moment to notice that, strangely, Clay’s skin hadn’t become flushed when he was angry. Still, it was clear to see he was.
“What did I say I’d do to you if you kept bothering me?” he growled when he was inches from Edward.
“This.”
Clay didn’t even see the gun before he heard the shot. He gripped at his stomach, grunted, and dropped to his knees, trembling. Edward tucked his piece away and said, “Although that was meant to be my punishment for lying to you. And I didn’t blow your head off, technically. But, the details are largely unimportant, aren’t they? Or at least that’s what a detective of your caliber would believe.” His smirk was a far worse insult than his words or his weapon. “Thank you for your time, Inspector Clay. I sincerely hope someone catches your friend’s killer.”
As he began to walk away, however, a voice unfamiliar to Edward came from behind. “
You shouldn’t have done that,” it slurred. It was an old, wearied sounding voice, but when Edward turned, all he saw was Clay, getting back to his feet. That’s when he realized it.
He’s not bleeding. He's not bleeding I shot him point blank in the stomach and he’s not bleeding.Clay’s arm stretched forward, as if it were made of rubber, and grabbed the stunned Edward Nigma. It flung him back and slammed him into the wall again, knocking the wind from him. Clay approached him, his arm shortening until the two were face to face again. “I’ve been walking this Earth since 1927. Did you think I’d be taken out by a gunshot?”
“I’d sort of hoped.” Edward said before he could stop himself. Clay’s free hand struck him across the face. “You wanna die, little man?” his older voice growled.
“Would it mean I don’t have to listen to you anymore?” he blurted and cursed inwardly. Clay hit him again, and then threw him to the ground. As Edward tried to pull himself to his feet, Clay ignored him and went back to the woman’s body. His hardened, old eyes stared at Emily Reese, his head cocked to one side. Then his eyes changed, from their normal brown to unnatural red orbs. They were back to their normal color before Edward had time to notice.
“Do you really want the killer caught?” Clay asked.
“What?” Edward’s breath was heavy and strained. “I don’t care; I just want to be done with this crap.”
“I want the killer found and you want to be free, so here’s what’s going to happen;” Clay stood to face him. “Option one, you and me catch the killer and I’ll overlook the fact that you tried to kill me and let you walk free. Option two, I break you in half and leave the pieces with the GCPD. What’s your pick, genius?”
Edward stared incredulously at the investigator. “Just tell me this: what the hell are you?”
He smirked. “I’m Clay.”
* * * * * *
Edward hadn’t said ever said ‘Yes’ to Clay’s request, yet despite this, the two were now across Sprang Bridge and in Monolith Square. The house the stood in front of was old and decrepit; paint was peeling off the wood, the yard in front had turned into a dumping ground for old machines, and there was a stench in the air Edward couldn’t quite identify. He only knew that it must have come from something living and that it made him want to vomit.
“Is this where your contact is or are you just trying to score some meth?” he asked, disquieted by the overall environment.
“Just let me do the talking,” Clay answered. “You do know how to not talk, right?”
“What I know could fill the Grand Canyon,” Edward said.
“I don’t care. Shut up.” Clay knocked on the front door. After a few moments, during which the two heard the creaking of floorboards inside, the door opened slightly and a middle-aged man regarded them from inside.
“Can I help you?” he asked, using a deep voice that he was clearly putting on.
Clay cleared his throat. “Can you sew a bullet wound shut?”
“Depends,” the man answered. “How big is the bullet?”
“Bigger than I can say, but smaller than you know.” Clay answered simply. Edward raised an eyebrow at the conversation. The man inside regarded them once again and asked, “Who sent you?”
“The man of a thousand faces,” the investigator said. The man inside paused for a moment, then slammed the door shut. Edward and Clay heard the clicking of locks and the jingle of a chain before the door flew open and the man inside said, “Get in, quick.” The two rushed inside and the door was immediately shut behind them.
The interior of the house looked no better than the outside. Everything was in disrepair and blanketed in a coat of dust. A musty smell hung in the air, and Edward pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his mouth to avoid whatever debris was no doubt hovering in the room.
The middle-aged man looked wearied; bags were under his eyes, his black hair was stringy and messy, he hunched slightly, and it appeared that he hadn’t shaved in some time. “Who are you?” he asked, no speaking in a normal-sounding voice.
“It’s me, it’s Clay,” the investigator answered for the two of them. “I’m just wearing a different outfit. This is my associate, Mr. Cress. Cress, this is the Crime Doctor.”
The Crime Doctor didn’t seem to notice Edward, and remained focused on Clay. “What do you need?”
Clay produced a roll of bills from his coat pocket and said, “I know you’re not a coroner, but we found a body, and I hoped you could take a look at it, see if there’s anything unusual about it.”
He seemed surprised by this, regarded Clay one more time, then said, “Sure, sure. Just bring it in to my lab and I’ll give it a look.”
Clay nodded and went outside. Edward lingered briefly to eye the Crime Doctor, before following his unwanted partner out the door.
“So he has a lab,” Edward said. “I knew you were here for meth.”
“He’s not a dealer,” Clay said. “Well, he sort of is. He knows how to find prescriptions and sells them, but his main business is healing the sick, or more often the wounded, of Gotham’s more unsavory characters; all off the books, of course.”
“Of course,” Edward continued to look at the decrepit old house, inside of which was apparently a doctor who catered exclusively to criminals. Only in Gotham.
After retrieving Emily Reese’s body from the trunk of Clay’s shabby car, the two carried it inside the house. Clay led them downstairs, to a room that shocked Edward. It was white, pristine, almost like an actual hospital. There were three beds, an array of machines (most of which Edward didn’t recognize), and sink, in front of which was the Crime Doctor, washing his hands. Like the laboratory, the doctor was almost completely different than the house above. He was dressed in grey scrubs, his long hair was tied back, he no longer hunched, and covering his eyes were a pair of star-shaped, pink shaded sunglasses. He looked up at the two and said, “Ah. Put it down over at number three.” He gestured with his head towards the nearest of the beds.
As the two approached number three and put Emily Reese’s body down, Edward said, “I must admit, doc, you cleaned up well.”
He let out a sigh. “Yeah, well, you never know who’s going to come asking for help. More often than not, people these days want me for enhanced interrogation, and I have to look the part of the deranged torturer. Makes ‘em more likely to talk if they think I’m crazy.”
“Isn’t that against your Hippocratic oath?” Edward followed up.
“Never took one. Self taught since age twenty. Any other questions?”
“Yes, actually,” he continued. “What’s with the glasses?”
The Crime Doctor let out a heavy sigh, tied a surgical mask to his face, and said, “Shall we begin?”
Edward smirked and took a step back as he snapped a pair of latex gloves across his hands and began to open Emily Reese’s blouse. Beneath it was her pale body, painted crimson with dried blood. Neither Edward nor Clay broke their gaze, and the Crime Doctor didn’t seem at all fazed by the gruesome sight as he surveyed her body from beneath his star-shaped sunglasses. “Lesse…looks like these wounds were made by a kitchen knife. And they were made post-mortem.”
“Oh really?” Edward asked as he turned his head towards Clay. The inspector rolled his eyes. The Crime Doctor ignored them and continued. “Based on the rate of decomposition, I can say she was killed around…eight hours ago.”
“Can you tell us how she died?” Clay asked.
He didn’t look up as he answered. “Well, to be sure, I’d have to do a toxicology report, which I don’t know how to do or have the necessary equipment for, so I can’t really…oh…” he stopped when he reached her eyes. “Now that is something. Come look at this.”
Edward and Clay shrugged at each other and approached the body. “See the eyes?” the Crime Doctor asked as he held open her left eye. “See how much the pupils are dilated? I’ve only seen one thing that can cause that?”
“And that is…?” Edward trailed off.
“Fear gas.”
A silence hung heavy in the laboratory. Clay muttered a curse and began to pace the room with his hands behind his head. Edward raised and eyebrow and asked, “What is that, some kind of drug?”
The Crime Doctor slowly lifted his head to look at Edward, but said nothing. Clay, however, said incredulously, “Really? You don’t know what fear gas is?”
“Forgive me for being out of the loop, but I’ve been alternating between being brainwashed by a magic cult and being dead,” Edward responded flatly.
“Fear gas is a weaponized hallucinogen,” the Crime Doctor said. “In low doses it causes violent illusions of the victim’s fears, but can be lethal in larger quantities. It was developed by a former psychologist who took up supervillainy and uses the gas in his crimes, or as he calls them, ‘experiments’.”
“Scarecrow,” Clay spat. “We get to hunt down the Scarecrow.”
“And that’s…bad?” Edward inquired.
“He’s a psychopath with a fetish for burlap and habit of gassing people into insanity or death,” Clay answered. “Yeah, I’d say that’s bad.”
“Then I suppose we’d better get started looking for him.”
I’ve been conscripted by an inept detective to hunt down a killer, and I’ve been informed by an unlicensed surgeon that the man we seek is a pseudo-scientist with a habit of driving people mad using gas. Yep, this can only be my life.To be continued
Let us know what you think
here!
