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“Dick?”
“Hmm?”
Terry frowned, not sure if the other man was even awake. Maybe that was the point of this assignment he'd given them, just an excuse to let him sleep while they were busy with other things, but Terry hoped it wasn't. He'd actually enjoyed it. He didn't do enough of this himself, sticking more to the fighting and the suit and letting Mr. Wayne or Max look things up for him. It was nice to have a partner, but he was also liking doing all this himself, every step of the way.
“I had a few thoughts about the case you gave me,” Terry said, taking out the paper he'd made notes on. “I think it would help to see the crime scene, but with the diagrams and photos, I have a pretty good idea of what happened, and I was able to come up with a theory—”
“Already?”
Terry shrugged. “I figure you had one when you passed the files to us, and it actually has been a lot longer than you think. I'm pretty sure you fell asleep while Damian and I were reading.”
Dick shook his head. “Shouldn't have. Not that tired, and there's too much to do.”
“Like meeting Oracle?”
“Later,” Dick said, shaking his head. He stretched and yawned. “Give me—hmm—what you've got—hmm—so far. I'm looking—hmm—forward—hmm—to hearing—hmm—it.”
“Maybe you need some coffee. You just yawned five times in one sentence.”
Dick nodded, and then like he'd heard them or was somehow magic or something, Alfred was there with a tray and what looked like a tea service but smelled like coffee. Dick grinned, getting to his feet and walking over to where Alfred stood. “I know I don't say this often enough no matter how many times I say it—Alfred, you are the best.”
“Indeed, Master Richard, but I feel I should—”
“Where are the cookies?” Damian demanded. “And don't listen to him. He didn't solve anything.”
Terry turned and glared at him. “All I said was I had a theory I wanted to run past Dick. You're just sore because you can't think for yourself and have no idea who killed your victim because you didn't do it. All you know is fighting and it won't get you anywhere. Won't make you Batman, that's for sure.”
Damian went for him, but Terry dodged him and Dick caught him, pulling him out of the way. “You will regret this, pretender.”
Terry shook his head. “I already do. Sorry, but your threat means nothing to me.”
“Enough. Both of you,” Dick said, letting go of Damian to rub his head. “I have a headache, but I want to hear about your progress. Walk me through what you've done and—thank you, Alfred.”
Dick took the pills and swallowed them down with his coffee, making the older man frown.
“If you need anything else, I will provide it in due course,” Alfred said, and Terry took his own cup from the tray before the butler could leave, wondering if Alfred had actually known that Dick needed the painkillers or carried them anywhere and everywhere just in case.
“So,” Dick said, sipping from his coffee and looking between Terry and Damian. “Progress?”
“The butler did it.”
Terry looked over at the kid and frowned. “You're joking, right?”
“I wish I had my suit,” Terry said, and Damian huffed beside him, still annoyed that they were doing work on Terry's case and theory instead of his. Terry figured that was because his theory was actually valid—unlike Damian's, who was blaming the butler because he was mad at Alfred. Terry had looked through all of his file, from the photos to the statements, and he thought he knew what had happened. He just needed a way to prove it.
“See? You are nothing without the suit.”
“That is not true,” Terry snapped, about done with this brat and his obnoxious behavior. He was sick of the way Damian acted, and he didn't know how Dick could just ignore it like he did. Then again, pretending it didn't bother him seemed to be an effective strategy for him. “I just want to know what the suit would tell me about this place.”
“That would defeat the purpose of this exercise,” Dick said, and Terry looked over at him with a frown. He'd figured on the other man having a theory of his own before he handed over the case, and now it looked like Dick was trying to find proof to back it, too. What was so fascinating about that piece of paneling, anyway? “The idea here is to go with what the mind can tell us, with what we observe with our own eyes.”
“Batman uses lenses,” Damian said with a sneer.
“Lenses can be damaged. Or hacked,” Dick said, warning with a tone that suggested experience with both cases. “You have to be able to use what you can see and remember just as much if not more than any gadget you might have. Gadgets can save you, but more often than not, it's your wits and your body that does it. If you can't think this stuff through without technology, you aren't going to get far.”
“This is pointless,” Damian grumbled, kicking at the wall.
“What did you see with that paneling?” Terry asked instead. “I looked at all the photos—there wasn't even splatter on that one. I don't think it had anything to do with the murder.”
“Oh, no, it didn't,” Dick said. He ran a finger along the curve of the wood. “It just reminded me of the hotel we stayed at when I was six. Maybe seven. I'm not sure. It had this kind of paneling and Mom kept saying that if she had a house, she wanted paneling just like it. And Dad got some and put it on our trailer and Mom couldn't stop laughing and... Sorry. Nostalgic, I guess.”
Damian snorted. “Sentimentality is for fools.”
Dick shook his head. “At least I remember my parents with fondness which is not the case with many people. I was lucky. Very lucky.”
Damian glared at him, but Terry knew it was because the kid couldn't really argue that. His mother was a psychotic assassin, and his father was Mr. Wayne. Batman. That was kind of messed up, no matter what anyone said. Terry knew his parents hadn't always gotten along, and he'd fought with his dad the day he died, but he knew what it Dick meant about valuing the good memories.
“Okay, Terry, let's go through this,” Dick said. “Lay it out for us here. The murder happens...”
“Early in the evening. Some thought she'd come home from work, walked in on a burglar, and died because she spooked him,” Terry said, looking around the room, trying to remember what he'd seen in the photos. “Her body was found not far from the door and her purse was dumped out like someone had gone through it in a hurry.”
“But?”
“But genius pretender over there doesn't think it was a burglar,” Damian said. “We already heard this part.”
Terry glared at him for a moment. Dick waved him on, and Terry sighed before continuing. “When you look at it now, it seems almost obvious that the whole thing was staged to look like she'd just come home and surprised someone. I don't think that's what happened—it's just what the killer wanted people to think happened so that they wouldn't look deeper because this is Gotham.”
“I agree,” Dick said, leaning against the wall. “It's an accurate, if sad, assessment of what probably happened. It annoys me to think that the detective didn't seem to try, but then again, I don't know what might have kept him from doing so. Maybe it was Arkham. Maybe it was a gang war. Maybe nothing. I don't know. I just think you're onto something here, Terry.”
“Please,” Damian scoffed. “It's not like you didn't know all that before you gave him the case. You're Batman. You don't need him to solve this for you.”
“I am tired and overworked and considering dangling a child assassin off a rooftop next patrol,” Dick said with a smile. “Would you like to push it further, Damian, because if you do—”
“I think it was her ex-boyfriend. He has a poor alibi and plenty of motive,” Terry said. Dick and Damian looked at him. “Do I get more cookies now?”