The sun barely peeked through the cloud cover, showing only half its face, but for Gotham that counted as good weather.
"Another Monday."
Marco brushed off his newly issued dark-blue captain's uniform and walked into the East End Precinct. The lobby was filled with overlapping voices and ringing phones, the whole place buzzing like a kicked hornet's nest. Officers coming off the night shift had bags under their eyes deep enough to pack luggage in, uniforms wrinkled and stained, dragging themselves through handover like zombies.
"Assault case from last night in the East End, report's almost done, just needs signatures..."
"Suspect in holding cell three is screaming for a lawyer..."
"Goddamn it! The evidence list for that armed robbery over the weekend doesn't match the chain of custody..."
"Forget writing it up clean. Just get one of those mopes to cough up a patsy and call it a day..."
"Captain, you don't look so good. Something wrong?"
"Nah. Just suffering from an incurable disease called 'Monday Syndrome.'"
Marco rubbed his face, trying to wake himself up. Anna handed him a cup of coffee as he passed the front desk. He immediately passed it to Alan, who was walking by chewing a donut and looking half-asleep.
"Otis! Over here!"
Otis scurried over, hunched slightly, like he was still trying to make himself smaller out of habit. Marco slapped a hand against his chest.
"Stand tall. You're going to court today. Look sharp, don't embarrass yourself." He glanced down. "You got all your files?"
"Right here!"
Otis fumbled with a bulging folder, trying to pull out various documents, but Marco pressed his hand down and shoved the whole thing into Alan's hands instead.
"Court procedures are all you today. Don't screw this up. The DA and the judge have been greased. The defense lawyer's a sleazeball public defender who won't push too hard. Should be straightforward, but if you need to spend money, don't hesitate."
"No problem, sir!" Alan snapped a quick salute. "We're heading out now."
Marco watched them leave, then took a moment to just stand there.
The air in the precinct had a smell all its own, burnt bitterness from cheap black coffee, the sharp sting of disinfectant failing to cover up the stale sweat that clung to everything. A line had formed by the copier, some rookie tapping his foot impatiently while the machine wheezed and clunked. The fax machine screeched as it spat out a BOLO from the state police.
"...Zzzt... 10-50, multi-vehicle collision on southbound I-95, need rescue and traffic control."
The dispatcher's voice crackled over the radio, flat and disinterested, like she didn't particularly care if anyone responded.
Marco crossed the hall, navigating around a janitor mopping up what looked like coffee, and opened the door to his office. For a captain, having even a small private office was a luxury. Plenty of supervisors were squeezed into shared desks in the bullpen. Most of the job happened on the street anyway. But when Bob had decided to give him an office with a door that closed, not a single officer in the East End had complained. According to everyone: They hoped Captain Vitale would continue his excellent work in a better environment and bring in even more donations for the precinct.
Lovely. Just lovely.
He figured everyone in the East End was a goddamn politician in training, sweet-talking geniuses, every one of them. But when he opened his office door, the genius waiting inside wasn't known for sweet talk at all.
"Hi, Marco. What becomes more precious the less of it you have?"
Marco's face changed instantly. "Don't tell me you broke my old man's moka pot!"
He rushed to the desk, yanked open the bottom drawer, and sighed in relief when he saw the small aluminum espresso maker still sitting there, dented but intact.
"Thank God. My father wasn't the most responsible guy, but if I smashed the one thing he actually cared about, he'd claw his way out of his grave just to beat my ass."
He looked at Edward's helpless expression and finally registered what had just happened.
"Uh... Ed. That was a riddle, wasn't it?"
"Yes. And the answer is you, my friend." Edward sighed, adjusting his glasses. "My transfer paperwork finally went through. So... what do you need me to do?"
"Well..." Marco scratched the back of his head, looking embarrassed. "First, the bad news. Right now, the forensics department and the medical examiner's office... don't exist yet."
Edward's face showed a flicker of disappointment, but he nodded. "I expected that. So... any good news?"
"Yeah, actually." Marco pointed east, toward the wall. "You remember that building next to the precinct? Bob worked it out with City Hall. We can buy it for just over a hundred grand. Though it comes with about two hundred thousand in outstanding debt."
"So...?"
"Make a list of what you need. We don't have the budget to renovate the whole building yet, but we can start with the basement. Get the morgue and evidence locker set up down there first. That'll let you start working while we figure out the rest."
Marco pulled the door open and called out, "Anna!"
The young woman jogged over and snapped a salute. "Yes, sir!"
"Today you're going with Edward to... uh..." He looked at Edward with a confused expression. "I have no idea where you're going. He's in charge. Make a list of all the equipment he needs to purchase, then bring it back to me. I'll pass it to logistics."
"Got it." Edward stood up, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'll try to keep costs down..."
"It's not our money." Marco waved him off. "If it's not enough, we'll figure out a way to squeeze more out of somebody."
He watched the two of them leave, then turned his attention to the mountain of case files stacked on his desk. Time to sort through the bullshit.
"Casino report... some weirdo in a costume attacked the poker tables... Bruce's out doing his midnight patrol again."
He set that one aside. Batman's activities were starting to become a regular thing.
"Body parts found in the business district... damn, this is right on the East-West border..."
He moved it to the "pass the buck" pile.
"Family massacre in Old Town... closer to headquarters, definitely their jurisdiction..."
Another one for the pass-along pile.
"Dismembered remains found at the sewer outflow..."
Marco paused.
What was with all the dismemberments lately? If these psychos loved chopping people up so much, they should open a butcher shop and make it legal. The thing was, this didn't fit gang patterns. Organized crime usually didn't bother with dismemberment. If they wanted to send a message, they left the body intact and dumped it somewhere public with the face showing, proof of who did it and why. If they wanted to disappear someone, they tied rocks to the corpse and dumped it in the river.
Dismemberment was personal. It was about rage, or sexual sadism, or some kind of ritual significance. It was the kind of thing serial killers did, not mob enforcers.
He sighed and stacked all the dismemberment cases together in a separate pile. Something to look into later. For now, he moved on.
The next file was an internal notice. Official GCPD letterhead, signed by the commissioner.
He skimmed it, not really paying attention at first.
"In light of the recent cult murder case, the Gotham City Police Department is seeking psychological counseling and support from community organizations. The city government will appoint Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum, as a special visiting consultant for GCPD headquarters; Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel, assistant professor at Gotham University, as a special visiting consultant for the East End Precinct; and Dr. Jonathan Crane, assistant professor at Gotham University, as a special visiting consultant for the West End Precinct. These psychological experts will provide counseling services to officers and citizens in need every Friday. The mayor stated that the mental health needs of our citizens..."
He stopped reading.
He read it again.
"Oh, psychological counseling. That doesn't sound bad. Bunch of PhDs, Gotham might be a shithole, but at least we're not short on academics." He muttered to himself, still scanning the names. "Hugo... that name sounds familiar... Harleen..."
Harleen Quinzel.
"HARLEEN QUINZEL?!"
He shot up from his chair like someone had lit a firecracker under his ass. He snatched the notice he'd just set aside and read it again, hoping he'd misread it the first time.
Nope. Still said Harleen Frances Quinzel.
"Who the fuck brought this lunatic here?!"
He paced behind his desk, running his hands through his hair.
Okay, calm down. She hasn't met the Joker yet. She's still just an assistant professor at Gotham University, researching criminal psychology. She's not Harley Quinn.
But still.
What kind of sane person dedicates their academic career to studying psychopaths and sadists? What kind of person voluntarily spends time interviewing the worst humanity has to offer and comes away thinking, "Yeah, this is fascinating, I want more of this"?
He looked at the third name on the list. Jonathan Crane. It didn't ring a bell. Probably some quiet, boring academic who wouldn't cause any problems.
"Why couldn't we get the quiet boring guy? Why do we get the future supervillain?"
He buried his face in his hands and rubbed hard. He grabbed his thermos, still full of hot coffee from this morning, and took a huge gulp without thinking.
Then immediately sprayed it everywhere.
"FUCK!"
He coughed, wiping his mouth, coffee dripping down the front of his uniform.
Of course nothing good happens on a Monday.
He grabbed the notice and bolted out of his office, taking the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. He pounded on Bob's door with his fist.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
Bob's lazy voice came from behind him. Marco stepped aside as Bob squeezed past, fishing keys out of his pocket and unlocking the door.
"It's not even eight yet." He tossed his briefcase onto the desk. "Seeing you this early... yeah, Mondays are cursed."
"Chief, look at this." Marco handed him the notice. "Can we switch the person assigned to our precinct?"
Bob spread the notice flat on his desk, patting his pockets for cigarettes and a lighter. "This... Harleen..."
Click.
He lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.
"Harleen... Dr. Quinzel. What's the problem?"
"She..."
Marco hesitated. He couldn't exactly say: She's going to become a supervillain who helps murder hundreds of people.
After a moment, he muttered, "I think... she's... not very competent."
"Bullshit!"
Bob crumpled the notice and tossed it back at him. "You've got a high school diploma and you want to judge a university PhD? Stop wasting time worrying about shit that doesn't matter."
He leaned back in his chair, smoke curling up toward the nicotine-stained ceiling.
"The purchase agreement for the building next door will be signed in a couple days. I negotiated with the city, we can start construction soon. Here..."
He pulled a business card from his desk drawer and flicked it across the desk.
"That's the renovation company's number."
Marco picked up the card, eyeing it suspiciously. "I don't care if you're taking kickbacks, but make sure they don't cut corners on the work."
"Relax. They wouldn't do that." Bob blew a smoke ring. "Just submit the equipment list and let logistics and finance handle the procurement. Heh... if any of those guys try to skim money, we'll catch them."
Uh... do you hear yourself talking?
Marco's mouth twitched, but he resisted the urge to point out the irony. He nodded and stood up, heading for the door. He'd barely made it down the stairs when the internal phone started ringing.
He picked it up in the hallway. "Yeah?"
"Get up here." Bob's voice was tight, stripped of its usual lazy drawl. "Someone robbed Falcone's vault."