2014.03.31 - The Court of Owls: A Murder in Gotham

The call comes in the middle of the night.

The man's voice is disguised by a synthesizer; he refuses to divulge his name. Instead, he offers a large sum of money to be transferred to Mr. Nygma's account -- but if (and only if) he can solve a very simple riddle: 'Who am I?'

The first clue, Mr. Nygma is told, will be found at Gotham's opulent McHeigh hotel; a high-rise five-star home-away-from-home for the rich and wealthy. He is told he must not tarry, lest the trail of clues grow cold -- and so, presuming he takes the bait and does arrive... he'll likely be somewhat surprised to find the police are already there. Stranger still: The GCPD are expecting him. A uniformed officer steps forward the moment Mr. Nygma arrives, wrapped in a plastic poncho to ward off the rain and cold -- informing him that they've been waiting. Without another word, he's taken up into the gold-trimmed elevator, ascending toward the upper floors...

...and into the large corner penthouse suite. It's a lovely room; sleek, modern furniture -- a mini-bar -- a lovely view of Gotham's cityscape, despite the thunderous rainstorm that rumbles ominously out past the windows. The only thing that mars the view... are the two corpses, draped across the floor.

Timothy and Mary McHeigh; a rich Gothamite couple who are the owners of the very hotel that Edward Nygma now stands in. Both are dressed as if they had intended to go out that evening -- Mr. McHeigh in a sharp suit, Mrs. McHeigh in furs. Both have been shot; a single bullet through their hearts.

"--was told by the officer on duty to cooperate with you fully," the escorting officer -- a man named Bill Pulley -- informs Nygma. "Strange as hell, if you ask me. No witnesses, no sign of forced entry... nothing -- as far as we can tell -- stolen."

Pieces of trivia tug at the back of Nygma's brain. Something is perhaps very familiar about this scene...

Edward was tired. Assaulted by the Joker, dealing with the cops all afternoon - it lead to him having a glass of port and turning in for the night. Roused from sleep by an insistent phone call, he was unhappy-but at least intrigued. This isn't the Joker's style, no matter how he claimed he was going to 'create a mystery', and nobody would follow up that mess that fast. So he felt safe in throwing on some clothes, getting into his car, and heading to the scene. Didn't stop him from bringing his gun, though.

Right thumb still aching from its earlier dislocation, Edward kept his hands in his pockets as he came up into the McHeigh. Taking in the scene, he looked for unusual points of entry; rain would be tracked in anywhere that the killer entered from outside, and it had been raining all evening. He'd fallen asleep to the patter against his bedroom window. It'd been peaceful after a long day.

"Officer Pulley, yes? If the killer didn't enter from outside, then he was either waiting for them when they arrived and had some means to enter, or it was possible that it was someone the McHeighs knew well enough to trust and let them inside."

He pulled gloves out of his pocket-grimaced as he snapped them on, and went to examine the bodies. Were they peaceful? Trusting? A look of surprise? Or had they been marred by terror and pain? One bullet to the heart each was a quick death, had they had time to see it?

What was it, what? was it?

"Must have been. We're interviewing the staff, right now," Pulley agrees, "but we pulled the phone records -- neither of them called for room service. Someone in the room next door said they heard the muffled gunshots..."

The two of them are hard to read, in death. They certainly don't look peaceful, at least -- 'surprised' might be a more apt word. But as Mr. Nygma inspects the corpses, that nagging little piece of trivia begins to float up to the surface of his brain...

Today's date: March 31st. A date that lives in infamy, in Gotham. The anniversary of Martha and Thomas Wayne's murder in Crime Alley. Both of them shot dead, through the heart.

Edward chewed the inside of his cheek, frowning as he processed. He got up, walked away.

"Does the hotel know their plans, by any chance?" Edward asked the officer, as he circled him again. An echo killing? This many years later? But to what end? "Were they going somewhere? The movies, an opera-where were they headed? No where's doing a classic Mask of Zorro showing, right?"

No, no, he's got to back it up. Don't go too far down the rabbit hole of the past, Eddie.

"--eh?" Officer Pulley cants his head at Nygma, looking -- well, apparently quite confused. "Th'hell did you...? Yeah, I didn't mention it, didn't figure it was important -- they'd reserved some tickets for a theater that's apparently been runnin' an original run of 'Mask of Zorro'. Was thinking of taking my kid to go see it, actually." The officer looks clearly uncomfortable at this deduction, shifting his posture to glance to the left and right -- as if trying to figure out if Nygma's got this room bugged.

And then... something else, out of place. Just as Nygma circles that officer, caught from the corner of the detective's eye. Hanging up on the wall. An original Jackson Pollock; vivid splatters of reds and greens and blues across a white canvas -- a chaotic maelstrom of art, nearly indecipherable to the untrained eye. To the layman, it looks like nothing more than a series of vicious, random paint-strokes.

But to Edward Nygma, it's something else: Upside down.

Then again, maybe down the rabbit hole of the past is right where he needs to be.

Edward stopped, feeling ice form in his gut. He took a breath, and walked over to the Pollock. "Love the guy's work," he said mostly to himself. "You think it has no pattern, but it's wrong. It does. Every layer of color, ever brilliant spatter... in the right place..."

He reached out to take the painting off the wall. "I doubt they were fool enough to leave any prints behind, but you might want to get the kit just in case..."

"--will get the print kit," Officer Pulley begins, but as Nygma removes the painting from the wall, something else is exposed...

A small alcove, located behind the painting; just a secret niche. Placed within that niche are two delicate, porcelain masks -- one for him, one for her. Both are smooth white, with eye holes and small, tiny beaks -- done in the menacing image of a snow owl. Included beneath the masks is a wickedly curved dagger, that appears ceremonial in design... and above them, a small, mounted plaque -- which bares a short poem:

'Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time, Ruling from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, Speak not a word of them or the Talon will have your head.'

"The hell is...?" Officer Pulley begins, blinking behind Edward Nygma.

"Did you know I'm not a native Gothamite, Officer Pulley?" Edward asked, almost conversational. "I moved here in my late teens. Gotham was on the cusp of something great, then. She was rife with corruption, burdened and sick with the cancer in her heart. And then... there was a Bat. But before there was a Bat, Officer Pulley, Gotham had *owls.*"

He beamed now, feeling his blood rush with the heady discovery. Yes, this was the perfect case, the very best. In his paranoia, he wondered if he hadn't been setup - lead here, fed something, tricked. This stank of set up. In the moment, he didn't care.

The pains of the earlier day forgotten, he carefully took up the 'male' mask in his gloved hands, and held it before his face-- not putting it on, but looking back at Pulley through the deep, set eye holes.

"Get the print kit. And a cup of coffee for me, if you can. I'm going to be up late."