Chapter Text
Jason hates these types of cases. Maybe that’s why he takes them so often. Drug dealing, theft, arms trading- he can rationalise that. Hell, he’s done that. But this? This kind of senseless cruelty? It’s what motivates him to keep trying.
Contrary to popular belief, Jason doesn't like killing. He likes getting rid of people who do like killing. He’s found the best way to do that is a bullet through the skull. And if some teeny tiny part of him feels a sense of peace when the body drops, call it catharsis.
In cases like these, there is only retribution. If God is judge, and the city jury, then Jason is executioner. He knows his role and he plays it well.
He’s been on this one for weeks now; getting nowhere fast. Five dead, all women in their early 20s, not much younger than Jason himself. No matter what the killer does to their bodies, he always leaves their faces. Even with their muscles gone lax, Jason can see their fear. He sees it in the way their makeup runs down their cheeks, the tears may have dried but their tracks remain. The victims were all spiked, singled out and taken from nightclubs. The issue Jason runs into is the lack of consistency. There's no one club he sticks to, no specific day he takes them, no set amount of time before kills- other than age and gender, the girls don’t even look alike. It’s like pulling teeth just to find anything.
Jason stumbles upon the next girl by accident. He’s halfway down an alleyway just outside of Park Row looking for a private place to smoke when he spots her. She can’t be older than 18; propped against the alley wall, blood pooling around her sequin dress, she looks unbearably young. The birthday girl sash around her chest, so soaked in red it’s almost illegible, sinks like stone in Jason’s gut and he feels nauseous. It’s not fair, but when is it ever? He knows come tomorrow the papers will say she brought it on herself for sneaking in with a fake id, and Jason’s blood will boil in his veins when he reads it. He’ll take it out on some petty criminal and wonder why it couldn’t be different this time.
He crouches on the concrete beside her, as close as he can get without disturbing the scene, and checks for evidence. He’s about to give up when he spots it; chipped nail polish and bloody fingernails. Brave girl, he thinks, I wish you hadn’t needed to be. He’s gentle as he takes a swab, almost like he’s trying not to wake her. If he can get a hit off of this, then it's over. He’ll find the guy and put him down. Preferably painfully. Fucker deserves a hell of a lot more than a bullet and Jason’s got plenty of anger to work through. He’s buzzing as he makes his way out of the alley, punching 9-1-1 into his cell and resisting the urge to wait with her until they come. He can’t bring her back, no, but he can make the man who did this pay.
The hum of his motorbike underneath him calms his jittering nerves. The last place he wants to go right now is the Batcave but he doesn’t have the equipment to run a DNA test by himself. He spins stories in his head, trying to come up with a reason why he needs it. Something that won’t have them questioning. He can’t risk Bruce catching on. Bruce will try to stop him but Jason’s already made his mind up. Jason will follow the no kill rule to an extent, but that man has to die and Jason is going to make it hurt. If he’s lucky he can make it there before their patrol ends, then he won't have to answer any questions. The world gets darker the closer he gets, the city lights fading into the distance behind him. This part of the drive always feels symbolic, of what, though, he’s not sure.
It’s easy enough to get in; for whatever reason, Bruce still trusts him with access. As far as he can tell, it’s empty. He dumps his bike unceremoniously and makes his way to the computer bank. It’s changed a lot since the last time he really got up close but he’s a quick learner. It’s not long before he has the swab in the system. He watches as the computer sifts through all accessible databases, getting progressively antsier the longer it takes. He’s so busy bouncing his knee and chewing his fingernails that he doesn't even notice the Batmobile pull in. In fact, it’s not until he hears the click of Tim’s shoes- and he knows it’s Tim by the weight of his footsteps- on the floor behind him. If Tim wanted to sneak up on him just now, he could’ve. They both know that.
“Where’s the Bat?” Jason spins the chair around to face him.
He looks tired. The kind of tired only a particularly tough week will get you. Jason won’t pretend to know what Batman and Robin are up to these days but it can’t be all sunshine and rainbows. Then again, when has Tim ever looked well rested?
“Showering- why are you here?” There was a time Bruce wouldn’t have dared leave Tim alone with Jason. Jason can't remember when it passed.
“I was just… Uh-” The computer pings. Match Found, “Leaving. Yeah, I was just leaving.”
He copies the file details onto his thumbdrive quickly and exits out of everything. Not exactly subtle or inconspicuous but he’s banking on Tim being too exhausted to bother questioning him. He gets a sigh and an incredulous look but Tim steps aside to let him go. Tim probably knows exactly what he’s up to and just doesn’t care enough to get into it, it’s happened that way before. He’s not half as nosy as Dick when it comes to stuff like this. Or, he is, he just won’t involve himself.
The sun's catching up to him by the time he makes it back to his safehouse. It’s about now that he’d normally try to catch some sleep but he’s too wired. Too close to getting what he wants to stop now.
The file isn’t extensive. It’s an arrest record for some petty crime committed a few years back. One especially nasty bar fight. But it gives Jason a name and a face, and that’s all he really needs. Martin Gooding. 38 year old call centre employee, born and raised in Gotham. He sifts through social media, public records- not so public records too- security footage, work logs, anything that might make it easier to find him. He makes note of all known associates. He finds out which coffee shop he frequents and when. Most importantly; his address. He compounds this into his own file and starts to form his plan of attack.
He shouldn’t be a hard catch. Sure, he’s good at covering his tracks, but that’ll be his downfall. He’s got no reason to suspect anyone’s watching him, so he isn’t hiding. Jason only needs to get him alone. He has a roommate, which means an ambush at the apartment is out of the question; too many variables. But it’s fine, given the right motivation, Jason is a very patient man. If 24/7 surveillance is what it takes, that is what Jason will do. First thing tomorrow he’ll put it all into action. For now he has to get some rest. Despite what little pattern Gooding has, he’s never struck during the day, so Jason figures he has enough time for a few hours shuteye. He needs it if he’s gonna do this well.
It’s 9am by the time he rolls out of bed. Gooding should be at work, so there's no reason to rush. He gathers whatever he might need and stuff himself into his civvies. It’s a weird feeling; going out without his gear. It feels like a part of him is missing. Like his shell has been cracked and the soft parts are showing. Cold and exposed and just waiting for a death blow. He’ll get past it soon, he always gets past it. Or ignores it until it fades to background noise. Jason Todd will not be a victim to fear, not ever again.
Walking these streets in the daytime feels like a different city. Its dark corners no longer lit in neon, rather resigned to shadow. If he’s honest, it throws Jason off a little.
He finds somewhere quiet to camp out. The rooftop of the adjacent building offers a clear view of the main floor and the exit. If Gooding leaves, Jason will know.
The day drags and there’s no sign of him. At first Jason thinks he’s working late, but the more time passes he starts to think he was never there at all. Maybe he took the day off, it was stupid not to check the apartment before coming here. If he’s sick, this’ll take longer than he’d hoped.
The apartment is on the other side of the island, too far to walk. At least not if he intends to get there quickly. He could get his motorbike and risk the noise, or he could suck it up and use public transport. Gotham transit isn't exactly reliable but it only takes him five minutes to catch a bus headed in the right direction. Not perfect but close enough. He thanks God it’s relatively quiet; it’s that awkward time between rush hour and nightlife that leaves the bus lacking passengers. He tucks himself into the back corner and steels himself for the next twenty minutes. It’s too hot. If it had been stuffy outside- and it had- it’s almost ten times worse in here. The windows don’t crack and the air is thick and stale. It clogs up his head something awful. This is why he operates at night. He’s become some sort of nocturnal animal, the daylight doesn’t do him well, the heatwave is killing him slowly.
He gets off somewhere near Robinson Park. The sky starts to darken, evening creeping in inch by inch. It soothes his ragged nerves. This end of town isn’t the cleanest so if Jason looks a little shady, no one pays any mind. He skulks through back alleys and jumps chainlink fences, he knows where he’s going and he intends to get there quickly. It’s a few blocks over and a couple stories up but he gets there without much trouble. The real issue is finding a vantage point that doesn’t give him away. There aren’t many windows; one to the living space, another to one of the bedrooms. Both of which are empty. In fact, Jason’s infrared shows him the whole place is empty. Great.
Jason waits. He waits. Then he waits some more. A couple hours of waiting later and still nothing. He gets his hopes up around 10pm when the door creaks open, but it’s only the roommate. It’s about 1am when Jason starts to think this isn’t going to be as easy as he first assumed. Is there a girlfriend Jason hadn’t known about? A trip he never found evidence of? Is he out hunting for another poor girl right now? 4am rolls around and it seems giving up and regrouping might be his best option. By 8am he’s more or less decided on a plan B. By 10 he’s ready to put it into action.
He finds his way back to the safehouse, making mental notes of next steps. He has names; friends, family, coworkers. He just needs an angle. Some way to ask questions without drawing suspicion. If this is going to work out he can’t risk tipping Gooding off.
He fishes out a fake police ID and heads back to the apartment. He figures he should start in the logical place if he wants to seem legit.
He waits until the roommate’s car pulls into the parking lot, gives it ten minutes, then slips into the building carefully. Undercover work is not his forte but he likes to think he can hold his own. It helps that no one knows who he is in the first place and with the white streak in his hair sprayed black and make up covering the worst of his scars, no one looks at him too hard.
It takes a good few knocks before anyone answers.
“Can I help you?” The roommate looks up at him with a puzzled stare.
“D.I. Peters,” He introduces himself, flashing the fake badge, “Is Mr. Gooding here? I need to speak with him.”
“Mr. Gooding?” He sounds even more confused that he looks.
“Yeah, Martin Gooding. This is listed as his last known address.”
“Right- yeah, Martin. No, he’s not…” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “Sorry- what is this about?”
“I have some questions for him regarding a case- nothing bad, any idea when he’ll be back?”
“Honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen him in months, but...”
Jason knows that isn’t true; there are pictures of them together as recent as last week. Despite that, he’s almost certain he’s not being lied to, not on purpose. The guy’s eyebrows knit together like his head hurts. Like he’s searching for memories that just aren’t there.
Strange, but not the weirdest thing Jason’s seen. Maybe he caught on and Gooding decided to do something about it. There’s all sorts of horrible shit on Gotham’s black market, a memory loss drug wouldn’t be out of the question.
He could ask more questions but he already knows he’s not getting answers. It’s a bust, sure, but it’s not the end of the world. There’s a sister tucked away in a dark corner of Coventry. She’s got to know something.
As it turns out, she does not. It’s the same thing; the same puzzled look and assertion that she hasn’t seen him in months.
“He used to come by every week but then he just stopped,” She says it as if she’s realising this for the first time.
“You didn’t think that was odd?”
“No, I… it is weird. It just never crossed my mind I guess, until you asked I hadn’t even noticed.”
He can see the guilt spread across her features in real time. He feels bad for her- it’s not like she knew about any of this, to her, he was just her little brother. He wonders if this is how Dick felt when he found out Jason had died. He knows now that Bruce had kept it from him. It puts a knot in his gut. He gets the urge to be kind. He wants to be comforting, he knows he isn't. Jason’s plenty aware of how intimidating he is, it’s an image he’s put a lot of effort into cultivating. He’s too big, like fill-up-a-doorway big, no-chance-of-escape big. It definitely doesn’t help that he's flashing a police badge at her. He tries to school his voice into something less threatening, to shake off the stern facade. He’s got soft features, it’s why he tries his best to look a little mad all the time, it’s also part of why he wears the full mask. Situations like these are the only time he’s glad for it.
“I’m sorry for the bother Ma’am, I hope you see him again soon,” He’s going to make sure she doesn’t if it’s the last thing he does, but he’s not going to be the one to tell her why.
He makes his excuses, says his goodbyes, and exits before she can spiral over the realisation. He isn’t good at this part. It leaves him feeling bad all over. Knowing that soon enough the worst day of her life will come and it’ll be half his fault. The fucker deserves what he’ll get, she does not. She shouldn’t have to be part of this. Maybe if he hadn’t reminded her she’d have forgotten him altogether and there would be no grief to haunt her. She’ll lose him twice; once when he dies, once when she finds out who he really was. Jason knows well that it doesn’t matter how awful someone was, if you loved them enough some part of you will always miss who you thought they were. Beneath all that hate, and blackness, and pain, there's a little flicker of light. Sometimes it’ll flare up and blind you, make you forget for a moment why it fizzled out. He’ll be her little brother forever, nothing can change that.
He wants to go home. He wants to take a shower hot enough to burn the last few hours off his skin. He wants to pick a fight. He wants to take a hit hard enough to forget the pain in his chest. He needs to find Gooding. He needs to break every bone in his fucking body and put a bullet through his skull.
Jason’s too emotional. He’s been told this his whole life. First he was a crybaby, then a hothead, now a loose cannon. This is his fatal flaw, it’s also his greatest strength. He cares, the world goes to shit when people stop caring. It’s just that he cares too much, he feels it all. Every injustice crawls under his skin and chews at him until it hurts. It’s a burden he’s willing to bear if it keeps anyone else from having to live a life like his, doesn’t make it any easier. He thinks it’s why Batman can’t stand him half the time. Jason can’t be objective. He can’t let things slide. He can’t allow this shit to go on.
Over the years Jason has come to know that Bruce could never truly understand the city he tries so hard to protect. He sees its pain and that hurts him, but he could never really feel what it feels. Not like Jason does. Sympathy vs Empathy. It’s why they can’t see eye to eye. Crime Alley birthed Batman, but it raised Jason.
He stalks its streets back to his safehouse. The one he might tentatively call his apartment. It’s not exactly a home but it’s as close as he’s had in a very long time. It has soft furnishings, a bed frame, and a tv- more that he can say for most of them.
He takes that shower.
He stands underneath the water until his skin goes red and the fog in his brain is replaced with steam. God if it doesn't feel good to forget it all for a minute. To let the pain be physical.
It’s too late to question anyone else by now and he’ll start his patrol soon but in the in-between he lets himself float away. He almost doesn’t notice when his phone starts to buzz. But the screen lights up and the caller ID says Replacement. If it were anyone else he’d let it go to voicemail, he knows for a fact if he doesn't answer Tim will crawl through his window. He wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important, and if it’s important he won’t let Jason ignore it.
He steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist.
“What do you want?” Maybe if he sounds pissed enough Tim will just hang up.
“Who’s Martin Gooding?” Of course Tim wouldn’t just let it go. He must’ve checked what Jason was looking at once he left. He probably should’ve done a better job hiding it.
“You don’t want to know- I don’t want you to know,” If Robin gets involved then Batman gets involved and Jason won’t get what he wants, “This is my business, I don’t need you in it.”
“So you found him?” There's a smirk in Tim’s voice, Jason can hear it. He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Tim clearly knows the answer already. A few moments go by in silence and Jason thinks maybe Tim’s given up, then it comes; “He washed up on the riverbank a couple hours ago.”
Shit.
“He’s dead?” Jason should really be happy, that was the end goal after all. He just wishes he was the one to do it.
“When I saw who it was, I thought it was you, but the official C.O.D. was suicide and even then, you’re not really the type to dump a body,” True. He tends to just leave them where they fall.
“Suicide how?”
“Gunshot to the head,” He can hear Tim on the computer through the phone, he must still be looking at the file, “Not sure how much I believe that considering he ended up in the water. Jason, who was this guy? From what I can see he was mostly clean.”
“Nobody, really. It was probably a mob hit- he was involved with some small-time shit, my guess is it went sideways and they wanted to make an example of him,” He could just tell Tim. It wouldn’t hurt, not now. But something in his gut tells him this isn’t the whole picture, and Jason likes to pretend he works best alone, “Look, you don’t wanna get involved in mob shit, that's kinda my thing, so let me deal with it.”
“Alright,” Tim says after a while. Likely weighing the pros and cons of butting out. He must decide it’s more trouble than its worth, “Just… loop us in if you need help, yeah?”
“I don’t need the Bat up in my face about this,” He hears Tim sigh on the other end of the line. It could just be annoyance but it almost sounds sad. Jason has a sort of malformed soft spot when it comes to Tim; born more of guilt than anything else. Tim hadn’t deserved what Jason put him through. He knows that now, fuck, he knew it when he did it, “Fine, if I want help, I’ll call you.”
He wastes no time looking into it. Already on his laptop by the time he hangs up on Tim.
Thirteen bodies so far. The kind of deaths no one looks too hard into, people who are better off gone. Like Gooding, the official stance on each of them is suicide. No matter the method, they all wind up in the water. It’s a pattern. It has to be.
The next few weeks clear up nothing. Each night spent chasing leads that don’t exist. He finds clues in the places where there aren’t any; lapses in memory, lost time, missing links. Someone’s burning a big black hole through Gotham, the question is why?
He starts with the first body. Some low level crook working under Penguin. For all intents and purposes, average. Again, he tries family, then friends, then coworkers, but he gets nothing. Anyone who might’ve known something has conveniently forgotten it.
It takes Jason an awful lot of digging to find anything useful. The wife’s medical records indicate long term abuse, though she can’t seem to remember any of it.
It goes on like this, no one can tell him anything about the victims, but there’s always a paper trail. If you didn’t know what to look for, you wouldn’t see it; whoever it is isn’t sticking to one gang, they’re not even limiting themselves to the criminal underground. The only common denominator is that they all had something to hide. Terrible people flying under the radar of a broken system.
They're not just killing, they’re erasing.
A break in the case comes in the form of some graffiti under one of Gotham’s long abandoned bridges. Jason only finds it after a body turns up nearby, bloated and old. BLACKOUT. Sprayed in white paint, heading a tally that counts up to fourteen. Jason sets up a hidden camera across from it. It’s a long shot, but if it pays off, it does so big time.
It’s over a week before it comes to anything. It’s almost 3am when he gets the motion alert, he hardly bothers to check the feed before he starts heading over. It isn’t far. Over rooftops, it only takes him a few minutes to get there. He’s met by the soft hiss of a spray can.
The sight doesn’t inspire him with much confidence. The guys about average height, maybe taller, and he can’t be much older than Jason. If at all. It’s hard to tell what kind of build he has, his clothes hang too loose on his body. And Jason’s judging too fast- he knows firsthand that size has nothing to do with skill- but he just doesn’t really look capable of anything.
Jason follows him all the way back to Park Row. To some shitty apartment block a few buildings away from his own. He watches until a light flicks on in a window three floors up.
This case is like some horrible rash, it’s an itch he can’t scratch. He’s been running himself ragged trying to find a lead to follow. If this is a dead end he might lose his mind.