For Laughs - Batman/Criminal Minds - Chapter 2 - 3/17
Title: For Laughs
Fandom: Batman (Nolan universe, mostly)/Criminal Minds
Links: Prologue + Chapter 1
Rating: T (overall), but ventures into M
Warnings: Joker-level violence, serial killer activities
Summary: If the BAU wants to catch the Joker, they'll need to profile the Batman. But will all of the team survive to close the case? Gen fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.
Chapter Notes: In this chapter, I introduce Detective Stephens. You'll recall the scene in Dark Knight where the Joker asks the cop, "Want to know how many of your friends were cowards?" and later uses him as a hostage/shield? That's Stephens. I would also like to point out that I'll be introducing canon characters from the comics/cartoons, but in a style which I think is, hopefully, complimentary to Nolan's universe (yeah, I call it "Nolan-zing their storylines"). For example, I'll bring in Jeremiah Arkham. Additional notes in Prologue.
Chapter 2
Profiling, Profiled
Sometimes, a media liaison's job could be compared to baking a cake. Put all the ingredients together, just a little of that, a pinch of this, make sure the timing was spot on, and hope that the end result was worth presenting to the world. The problem came with individual tastes: what was good to one person, was poisonous to another. As J.J. processed that the biting hiss of "gotta be shittin' me" she'd just heard was coming from the blinking cop standing in front of her, she realized that she'd just approached a walking peanut allergy. She truly hoped the comment was directed at their private plane and not the fact that she was woman nearly three decades his junior.
She stepped across the slick blacktop of the airport's icy landing pad, ignoring the flecks of water seeming to freeze on her flushed cheeks. Behind her, the other agents were stepping down from the plane, their bundled bodies tense as they prepared for Gotham's early morning breeze. Winter, as she had immediately thought, was not the best time to visit the city.
"You must be Jennifer Jareau," the police detective managed, covering up his earlier slip.
"J.J." she quickly corrected, as she had done so on the phone earlier, she assumed with the same man, a police detective that the commissioner and chief had agreed to assign to their case. When the cop spoke again, she realized the stubborn voice across the receiver and the one before were one and the same.
"Detective Teddy Stephens, Major Crimes Unit," the man greeted with a stiff nod, "Commissioner Gordon would be here himself, but as you might imagine, we're a little booked at the moment."
"Understandable, Detective Stephens. We wouldn't expect any different."
J.J. took the man's hand with her most reassuring smile plastered across her face. Still, her crystal blue eyes, as youthfully optimistic as they appeared, had already taken in several key features of their greeter. The detective's head of graying hair was ill-kempt, his shirt wearing two days of wrinkles, and his dour expression doubtful of the "experts" in front of him. He was trying, she could tell, to fake a warm professionalism, but his stern, tired gaze told her that Stephens, if not all of the GCPD, felt the involvement of the Feds was nothing more than a requirement.
Taking a barely noticeable breath, J.J. released the knot of frustration building in her chest, and eased the man forward to meet the team. It was unfortunate that Stephens' cool reception was a reaction she could recognize so easily. It would be up to her to change his mind, as well as the BAU's image with the PD, if the case was ever going to move forward.
"This is our Unit Chief, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," she directed, pausing after his name for a moment of recognition to pass, " and these are SSAs Jason Gideon, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, and Dr. Spencer Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit." Just as she expected, Detective Stephens raised a brow at Reid's title. J.J. ignored the protective surge that rose in the form of heat to her cheeks. A cloud of warmth collected like a burst of fog in front of her face. "Detective Stephens, if transportation is ready, we'd like to get started."
Det. Stephens' welcomes were curt. "Commissioner Gordon told me to offer to take your team to the hotel to freshen up. And defrost. It's not far from the station."
Hotchner stepped forward, not bothering to give the rest of the team another glance. The man's famed hardness seemed unaffected by the falling temperature. But for those who actually knew him, his reply was especially speedy. "Actually, as Agent Jareau said, we'd like to go to the station immediately and begin the profile."
Det. Stephens nodded. "Yeah, the commish' said you'd say something like that."
Morgan shook off a small grin. "I'm sure he did," he muttered.
Stephens snorted. "How 'bout we get out of this cold, if it's all the same to you." He stepped away from the agents, leading them to the standard black SUVs awaiting them.
The agents paused before following his lead, instinctively awaiting Hotch's orders. "Reid," he noted. His piercing eyes showed a brief hesitation when he began again. "Reid, I want you to go with Gideon to Arkham. Meet with the doctors there, see what they already have on the Unsub."
Spencer bit his lip, but nodded in agreement. Asylums never quite conjured up the best of memories for him.
"And, Reid, Gideon," Hotch added, "be careful in there."
Spencer hunched forward against the chill, his lanky body Gideon's shadow as they walked toward the first SUV. Stephens gave the two a nod before they tumbled into the vehicle, and the detective turned back to the remaining team members.
"Morgan," Hotch said, "due to your history, I'd like for you to be with me when we meet Commissioner Gordon, but we need to see the scene in Rhode Island. It's important that we know why the Joker made the detour out of the city before returning. What was the importance, destination or victims? Prentiss."
Emily was already nodding. As the newest member of the team, Prentiss had an infectious willingness that Hotch was quickly growing used to. And reliant upon.
"It'll take a few hours to get there," Emily replied, "but I can check out the house, the bodies of the victims too, if they're done processing. I'm sure Garcia's already running a background on the couple to look for ties to Gotham."
Det. Stephens stepped up. "I'll go with her. It's not quite in my jurisdiction, I know, but I got a buddy in Rhode Island who'll make sure everything's kosher. Fact is, that's the main reason the Commissioner sent my butt out here in the first place." He bounced his brow, as if to note that he thought Gordon was full of it, before turning to Emily. "Agent Prentiss, we can take the next ferry over. Figured you might like that, since we're guessing that's how the Joker got to Rhode Island so quickly."
"Good," Hotch agreed, turning to insure that Emily had agreed. "Check in when you arrive. The rest of us will be at Headquarters."
The boat ride to the small island had left Reid feeling nauseous, but he somehow doubted the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach had anything to do with the choppy water. He had read about the area called The Narrows, and knew for a fact that it had been proclaimed unlivable over the past few years, the buildings nearly destroyed by a riot that had ended with the entirety of the island being surrounded by a tall fence and more guards than almost any high-security prison he had ever visited.
Gray and foreboding, not unlike the majority of the mainland that had left it behind, the island was its own fortress of steel and stone and waiting eyes just beyond the shadows. Reid knew that last part was his imagination. The prisoners. . .the patients were in rooms, locked away, secure and being treated by a highly trained staff of doctors. Being guarded by an army of well armed civil servants.
Yet.
Reid could still feel the bile creeping up his throat as threatening acid fingers. An antacid would have been heavenly at the moment. The young agent couldn't quite put his finger on why the asylum's monstrous size was bothering him so. Then he recalled their reason for visiting: the Joker had escaped this place. He had been damaged enough to be cast out of society and locked away on this God-forsaken island. And then he had managed to pass through the hospital, the prison, itself, out of the area that had once been The Narrows, past men with guns, past the dogs being walked along its perimeter. Past the freezing cold waters.
One man had done that. One madman.
The "mad" was important, Reid knew. Without it, if simply a man, the actions might have been more predictable. Escape. Freedom. Run. Instead, the Joker had made it to the city, sought some mediocre vengeance one sliced cheek at a time, before taking a day trip to Rhode Island.
Reid stepped into the foyer of Arkham's main building, and stared down its gray and white floors at the lab coats and uniforms. He smelled the staleness of the place, heard the faintest sound of shouting, even though the inmates were some distance away. There was no doubt in his mind, a sane man would have left the state as quickly as possible, would never have returned for fear of this very hallway. But a mad man. . . Well, apparently a madman would return.
Reid felt the eyes again. But this time he knew they were real and not from behind barred windows. He shot Gideon a small smile, hoping to end the man's intense stare. It didn't.
"Reid?"
Gideon asked many questions in that single word: are you okay? Can you do your job? Do I need to send you away?
Reid wasn't sure how to reply. He resisted the urge to rub his forearm.
He wasn't a very good liar, especially when it came to his team. He chewed his bottom lip, happy to hear the approaching footsteps of a man in a brown suit. The doctor was dark skinned, perhaps bi-racial, his hair short and fading to a toffee hue, and his constant blink that of a man under verbal assault, though, as of yet, neither of the agents had spoken.
"Agent Gideon," he breathed. The name sounded painful coming from between his lips. He swallowed down his anxiousness enough for introductions. "I wish we were meeting under better terms. I'm Arkham's medical director, Dr. Harrison Thomas, and I'll be more than pleased to take any of your questions."
Gideon's brow wrinkled in a false expression of surprise. "I understood that the Administrator, a Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, would be greeting us today. Was I wrong?"
Dr. Thomas's blink had returned at full force. "Dr. Arkham was called away for a meeting, unfortunately. He would have liked to have dealt personally with this unfortunate situation."
"Unfortunate situation?" Jason asked, a chiding grin on his face. "Is that how Administrator Arkham refers to the escape of an inmate, Dr. Thomas?"
"He- no- we take this very, very seriously, Agent Gideon." A bead of sweat ran down Dr. Thomas's temple. Frustration took his breath and words, and he paused to collect himself. "We're doing everything possible to find out how the patient escaped and insure that it never happens again. I assure you, Agent, we run a very tight ship."
"I'm sure." Gideon nodded slightly, allowing the statement to pass, before adding, "Unlike your predecessor."
Dr. Thomas's brown flesh ashened almost immediately.
Reid straightened, resisting the urge to spout out all that he had read on the fiasco that had taken place almost three years ago, when Arkham's then director, Dr. Jonathan Crane's less than legal pastimes had come to light. It had been a bit of knowledge that he'd been eager to share on the short plane ride to Gotham, and likely the reason why Hotch had sent Spencer with Gideon to this hellish island. The escape of the Joker was not the first stain on Arkham's very peculiar history, and neither was the mad clown the only prisoner to escape. With this fresh on his mind, Reid was not surprised that Gideon had decided to approached the anxious Dr. Thomas with an aggressive tactic. Though, he felt that, perhaps, Gideon had some other reason for his behavior. His cool expression was too genuine. Reid understood why soon enough.
"I recall," Dr. Thomas said, attempting to regain his confidence, "that your unit made a previous request with the hospital."
"Several," Gideon corrected. "For interviews with your patients. Both before and after Dr. Crane left his office and you took his position."
"Yes," Dr. Thomas accepted, "as I said, we run a tight ship. The proper paper work. . ."
"It's very hard to gain access to the inmates here, Dr. Thomas," Gideon interrupted. He gave a short laugh, as if in confusion. "It seems it's somewhat easier for inmates to gain access to the outside world."
Dr. Thomas's thick lips formed a tight line. "I'm afraid I don't share your sense of humor, Agent Gideon."
Gideon shook his head. "I'm sorry for that," though the apology was lost with his mocking smile. "The Joker was an important patient. You were his lead doctor, I assume." Gideon didn't wait for his reply, already knowing the answer. "Dr. Reid needs to review your notes and ask you a few questions."
Another blink. "But I. . ."
Gideon stopped him. "While I speak to the co-workers of the dead guards in your employment. You won't mind, will you, Dr. Thomas? If a federal agent gets a look at your facility?"
Dr. Thomas's jaw twitched. "Very well." He flared his nostrils before waving his hand out for Dr. Reid. "My office is this way, Dr. Reid."
Reid followed, pausing once to look over his shoulder. He saw Gideon's expression, one of clear contempt and satisfaction, and raised a questioning brow. One didn't have to be a lip-reader to understand the word "later" on the tip of the other man's tongue. Reid nodded in reply, and turned back to meet Dr. Thomas's quick steps as they sped further into the heart of the asylum.
"Productive evening?" Alfred asked, blinking his heavy, lidded eyes at the man in front of him.
Bruce cheek didn't so much as twitch. He slid on a fresh shirt and stretched out his fingers. Tiny scrapes marked his knuckles, but none of them had busted. There would be no need for the embarrassing, if somewhat necessary, task of applying makeup to hide the small wounds. Thankfully, the gloves of the Batsuit had, for the most part, absorbed the force of the punches he had delivered. Bruce would have to thank Lucius for the extra padding the engineer had installed upon the suit's last renovations.
Alfred took the silence for what it was, exhaustion, and sat the platter of brunch down upon a small table. If he had assumed that the completion of the rebuilt Wayne Manor would make his morning habit of searching for Master Wayne somewhat easier, he was mistaken. The security in the caves had been doubled to insure that they were not discovered, which also meant breakfast was nearly always cold by the time it arrived to a sleepless and scrappy Bruce Wayne.
Not that the temperature of the meal ever really mattered to Bruce. It was simply a professional note on his abilities to do his job that Alfred had yet to work past. "I hear," Alfred said, breaking the silence once more, "that Gotham has been so fortune as to draw the attention of the FBI."
This grabbed Bruce, but it wasn't surprise but, instead, alertness widening his expression when he turned to his oldest friend. "Not just the FBI, Alfred, the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Profilers. Good ones."
"Do I detect a hint of professional admiration?" Alfred asked. "Because I should be detecting worry instead. If I'm not mistaken, Profilers are known for finding normal looking people with dark secrets and second lives. Sound familiar?"
Bruce frowned. "I'm not taking this lightly, Alfred."
"Are you certain of that?"
Bruce ran a hand across his face, wishing to release the pressure there. He'd told himself that his concern with the FBI was selfish. There were bigger fish. Bigger, clown painted fish who were cutting their way through the population of Gotham with a sharp knife. If there was some chance, he'd told himself, some small chance that these outsiders might find something he hadn't. . . But, as much as Bruce reassured himself that he didn't mind the sacrifice, that their focus would be the scarred madman and not the masked one, he couldn't help the gnawing bundle of snakes in the pit of his stomach.
He'd researched this team. He knew their track record. And he also knew that one slip-up would be enough to get him on their radar.
"I'm certain," Bruce assured.
Alfred raised a brow, snorting lightly. His crisp English accent had bite. "It might be somewhat difficult for Bruce Wayne to avoid an unnecessary meeting with a group of G-men on a clown scavenger hunt throughout the city."
"On the contrary, Alfred. They're staying at the Menagerie Suites."
The manservant tilted his head, a small smile glistening from his blue eyes. "The hotel you bought last month?"
"The very same." Bruce buttoned his shirt, crisp, ivory, and expensive, and selected a belt that didn't come with its own First Aid kit. He brushed back his shower-slick hair with long fingers. "In fact, I have feeling that Bruce Wayne might accidentally bump into a government agent before the day is up."
"Jim Gordon."
Commissioner Gordon paused, muttered an excuse to his wife--because he refused to say she was anything less, no matter what her eyes, what her silence, implied of late--and sat down the phone with a shake of his head. He hadn't heard the ajar office door open, but the voice hadn't scared him. One too many quiet visits from the Batman had kept him from reaching for a weapon.
When he looked up, he wasn't surprised to see Derek Morgan standing in the doorway.
"Hey there, kid," Jim said, the ghost of a smile beneath his mustache. He stood, stepping around his cluttered desk with a long stride. "Heard I'm supposed to call you Supervisory Special Agent now. Guess it's been a long time, hasn't it?"
He reached out, instinct letting him take the other man's hand without hesitation. Kid, he knew, wasn't the right nickname for Derek, never really had been, as the two hadn't been that far apart in years. Though, Derek, it would appear, sure as hell held together better.
The thought made Jim cough to hide a chuckle.
"Years. Wish this was under better terms," Agent Morgan said. An unvoiced agreement lined Jim's gaze. "My unit chief would like to get us set up as soon as possible. Do you have an area we could use?"
Jim nodded, looking abashed, "Of course, of course. I should have been up front to meet you. You might've heard, we remodeled recently. Got a briefing room that we've cleared for your team to use. Few computers, a board. Got the files brought in for you already."
Derek nodded in thanks. "Remodeled, huh? The Joker's work, as I understand."
Jim paused, letting a weighty silence gather between them. He cocked his head up, somehow managing to look down his glasses at the tall agent. The commissioner released a sigh.
"There a reason why your boss sent you in here first? Could have knocked himself, if he'd wanted. Seems the proper thing to do." Jim watched for Derek's reaction, already knowing the real reason. His team had sent him in first to soften the commissioner's defenses. Jim had thought maybe, just maybe, that the profilers would be too concerned with their target, the Joker, to question Jim's actions over the past few years. Derek's almost unnoticeable wince told Jim he had no such luck.
"I told Agent Hotchner, told my team, we were friends. They asked about Chicago."
Jim broke eye contact, resisting the urge to chew his lip. "Suppose that was necessary. Not much to tell, really."
Derek shook his head. "I'm sorry I didn't call, man. I should have done something. When we worked together, Detective Gordinski was constantly on my ass, but you had my back. I should have had yours."
"Nothing you could do, kid," Jim breathed. "You weren't in the department. And I did break regulations. Got the rookie killed." He cleared his throat, patting the agent on the shoulder. "That's the past, Derek. I wouldn't hold a few missed phone calls against you. The important thing is that you're here for my city."
Derek wasn't sure how to accept the gratitude. He stared down at the desk behind the commissioner, spotting a file. "That on Batman?"
Jim sounded a confirmation, his body language asking the agent to show him the door. Instead, Derek stayed planted. "How's the search going?"
"That's. . ." Gordon tripped over the reply and hoped Derek hadn't noticed. "Not important," he finally finished. "We have bigger problems. Like the Joker. Let's get your team settled."
Jim slipped past the man, out the door, the sound of his greeting with Agent Hotchner echoing past the frame, but Derek had a hard time pulling his eyes from the top of the file. He knew Jim well. They may have been distant over the past decade or so, but that didn't mean Morgan couldn't tell when the man was uncomfortable. And Jim Gordon was definitely uncomfortable with the mention of Batman.
There was a reason, Derek was certain, and he was determined to uncover it.
CHAPTER 3