Devil's Advocate {Eddie}

[Harvey Bullock]

Here he was, right smack dab in the middle of Gotham Heights in one of the most crime infested places within the city.

None of this fazed Harvey as he pulled over his police car onto the sidewalk; it was the private investigator detective squad car – created for just these kinds of circumstances. Places like these didn’t like the friendly presence of cops in the turf, so having a squad car look like your regular run of the mill Lincoln was some smooth precaution. But of course it also had its other purposes, and in this case it served for both of these reasons. Harvey walked out of the vehicle and closed the door behind him, pulling the handle to make sure it was locked.

You could never be too careful.

Earlier that day he had received a report to look for the missing compatriots of a collapsed building that was built on loose foundation from cheap developers who could care less about their tenants, and when the quake hit – it toppled over like a pile of leaves. None of the crime, the poverty, or the death surprised him anymore. He grew up in a place just like this – he knew all the tricks, all the hustlers, and all the drama that was an integral part of living in Gotham Heights.

But his face looked more distraught, if the idea of a missing family didn’t usually upset him, then something else on his mind was really grabbing his attention at the moment.

His agreement to take the case was not solely out of the goodness of his heart – in fact the thing that had made him so irritable and in need of a smoke at that moment was more than his heavy heart in having to write up of mortician report (most likely) but the fact that there was much shadier business to attend to after this.

As he walked down the sidewalk and slowly began to reach the pile of rubble, he pulled out a new pack of Marlboro Full-Flavored 100s, he palmed it into his calloused hands roughly and heard the silent echo of the pack rustle within his grasp till he felt it was ready to tear open and dive in for his first drag. No body was out that evening; probably all too busy looting each other or some other foolishness. But the silence put him more at ease, and so did his cigarette as he placed it in between his puffy lips and lit it up with a match. He took in a few long smoke fulls of tobacco and nicotine into his lungs before setting out and walking onto the mound of rock and concrete.

He was careful not to scoff and ruin his shiny leather shoes – one of his favorites as he walked around the mound trying to find a particular spot in which he could start digging. And he was blessed from an arduous seeking game when his foot touched a squishy piece of rock. He looked down to find that the rubble in that particular area was still very unstable as if it was sitting on top of an uneven surface. Bending down and pulling out a napkin from his inner trench coat pocket he began to pull away large lumps off rock from the area, and frowned unpleasantly at the sight of blood splattered all over a rock and a disembodied finger splayed out in front of him.

Just as he had anticipated – he was going to have to get a coroner’s report ready and get the bodies down to the morgue.

He hated having to file a dead-persons report – it always made him felt like he had failed. Even when it was something completely out of his power, like in this case, a natural disaster, he still felt like complete and utter crap. And having to take care of his shady business soon, it didn’t comfort or make him feel any better. He wished he had brought his small bottle of Guinness with him at least that gave him a warm feeling inside regardless of the situation.

He didn’t have the correct paper work with him at the moment, not that he needed it, usually as the ambulance and morticians that came to pick up the bits and pieces of the family into their black bags, they would hand him the paper work he needed to fill out. He stood up now, and he put his thumb and fore finger to the bridge of his nose and began to smoothly massage his temples. He looked down at his wrist, wriggled his chubby arm to move the sleeve down and get a look at his watch, it was nearly time to meet up with his “client” – and he already foretold that it was going to be a much longer night than he had anticipated.

He began to slowly climb down the rubble, planning on calling in the right kind of people to take care of the deceased family once he had taken care of this coming disaster first. He continued to walk down the block, and in the middle of Dahmer Avenue and 59th, there was a small alcove hidden from peering eyes, without hesitation and drawing little attention to himself he hustled himself into this dingy alleyway, a small ray of a flickering luminescent street light hanging off the wall.

He hated waiting, especially for such freak shows such as this. He didn’t think he had to wait, but he wasn’t surprised, fruits like this one liked to be fashionably late – as if it made a much more serious statement other than I’m-being-an-asshole.

But he stood there, a silhouette in the yellow light of the street lamp, hoping his “man” would be coming soon so he could start putting this day behind him faster.

[Edward Nigma]

The earthquake changed a lot of things in Gotham City. It took thousands of lives, and left thousands more homeless. It showed everyone's true colours. It sifted the heroes from the scum of the city. Some people rose up, helped those even less fortunate than themselves and proved themselves as worthy citizens and heroes. Others proved that their selfishness and cowardice, preying on the weak. Stealing and looting their way to survival, regardless of how many corpses they had to climb over in the process. And then there were others who exploited the cataclysm for everything it was worth, taking advantage of the needy and fighting for control and respect in the newfound No Man's Land.

Yes, things had changed. The value of things changed. Money was now pointless, it didn't matter if you were some homeless fellow on the street or Bruce Wayne with the billions of dollars in his bank account, everyone was even. The value of canned goods, fuel and batteries were greater than any form of nationally recognized currency.
But there is one commodity that has always, and will always be a valuable asset - information.
And The Riddler had information in spades. And what information he didn't have, he would get it any means possible.

The Riddler's car pulled up in the Gotham Heights. In many ways it was a discrete car, black with tinted windows. The kind of car that would follow the president around in a parade. The only different were the large silver question marks placed onto the hub caps.
The vehicle pulled up next to a small alleyway that was littered with rubble and trash, the only light coming from a flickering street lamp above.
A large bulky man left the driver's seat. He had hair down to his back and a five o'clock shadow bordering on a full blown beard. In another life, he could have been a professional wrestler, or an Olympic class weight lifter. But instead, he got himself stuck in Gotham City during the earthquake, and like so many goons like him, found himself in the employ of a maniac.
He opened the back door of the car. A cane dropped out first, planting itself on the ground, followed by a pair of brown shoes.
"This is the place Riddler," the driver said as The Riddler stepped out of his car, completely covered in green. Green jacket, green pants. He had the kind of purple eye mask on that someone would wear at a cheap masquerade ball, or that a superhero would wear a Lee Falk comic.
The Riddler, smiling, looked down the alley way they were parked in front of and saw a figure standing in the distance, watching them.
"Wait here, if I haven't returned in under five minutes, you know the drill," The Riddler told his driver.
"Run in and shoot everybody?" his driver asked out aloud.
The Riddler sighed and nodded his head to his dim witted driver as he entered the alleyway.

Nowhere felt safe in No Man's Land, even the few buildings that were strong enough to withstand the shock of the quake felt very much unsafe. It was a feeling that no one could get used to, and that crept up on The Riddler as he walked into the alleyway, seemingly unarmed and confident as ever.
If the aftershocks don't get you, then the survivors will.

"Lovely meeting spot, isn't it detective?" The Riddler said out loud, smirking as he drew closer to the figure, hidden away in an alcove, "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long Detective Bullock. It's been a busy day, what with all the unrestricted crime there is to commit now that Gotham has officially fallen to pieces."

There was no love lost between The Riddler or Detective Bullock. Riddler did not see him as a respectable police officer, or as an ally at any capacity, he saw him merely as a tool. A resource.

"But anyway, I bet your work has been cut out for you, eh detective? No Batman to help you and Gordon to save Gotham," Riddler changed his tone, darker and deeper, "Speaking of which, I don't suppose our mutual friend has resurfaced yet? No Caped Crusader corpses showing up yet? Out of all the run ins I've had with our Batman, and all the run-ins he's had with the other members of Gotham's criminal society, you know, Joker, Two-Face and all of them, it would just be a shame to have heard that he's died in an earthquake, wouldn't it?"
The Riddler leant back on his cane, awaiting Detective Bullock's response.

[Harvey Bullock]

He shook down his sleeve again to get a look at his watch, a fake Rolex, though his kind compatriots would swear it was the real thing. Of course he could tell the lousy difference, he was a detective for crying out loud.

It was five minutes passed the appointed hour, “Shit.” He grumbled under his breath, clearly displeased at the idea of being left to hang dry. If he knew that dingle fairy was going to flake out he wouldn’t have set up the meeting or contacted him in the first place. But the idea of Riddler not showing up did fill him with a sense of relief, in his own way, he knew deep down that this wasn’t the rightest of rights. He blended together the fine lines between good cop and bad cop – but it wasn’t like he was giving him guns to shoot at people with or even immunity from the police – like most goods exchanged between cops and villains even before the quake hit was information and necessities.

And the information that needed to be exchanged?

The who and whereabouts of the Batman.

He gritted his teeth whenever he thought about that long underweared freak, actually he hated all costumed heroes and villains – heroes probably more so than villains because at least the villains were straight up with their whack-a-doo-ness and evil. The heroes on the other hand, acted as if wearing these ridiculous costumes was just as common was jeans and a casual t-shirt, and, even more importantly, they would swear up and down that the costumed crime rate was NOT the by-product of their fetishes.

Bullshit.

He finished up his cigarette, but getting himself riled up he started to put his hand into his pocket again and pulled out another. He was just about ready to leave, having enough of this waiting-around business, and as he began to fumble around to move out of the dank alleyway - he heard him.

The smug little red head bastard. “Ya,” Harvey replied, flicking his match and lighting his cigarette. “I freakin’ walked in here thinkin’ I was in the Waldorf.” He rolled his eyes, shoved one of his meat hooks into his pocket (the one closest to his gun in his holster) and left his other hand free for pulling out his cigarette. Edward Nigma, or as he liked to call him – just Nigma (at least in professional cases – he really enjoyed name-calling most criminals of his caliber). As he was talking Harvey could already imagine what kind of kid he was when he was in school. Loner, twerp, he probably got tossed around the lot by all the big bullies who thought he was a little shit – which is actually still true now that he was parading himself around like the Green Giant. He let his hand form into a fist and flexed, he hoped to God that Nigma was in the same school as him, than he probably would’ve most likely given him a few swirlies and black eyes when he was a kid – the idea of that made Bullock smile.

He let out a steam roll of smoke puff out from his nostrils like a fuming bull just about ready to charge. He didn’t respond to the Riddler’s earlier statement about his exploits around Gotham, he knew he was saying that to rile him up, in fact, he wanted to take him in right now and call it a day – but there were bigger fish out there, and he needed this little sardine to get the rotten angler known as the Batman.

Besides, Nigma, though incredibly annoying and still very volatile and dangerous – was not on the highest of hit-men cop lists. In a sense he was relatively harmless – he wasn’t like the Joker who practically killed anything that moved, or like Two-Face who held the balance of life and death with a flip of a coin (though cops would darkly remark – at least you had a 50% chance of survival), Nigma, on the other hand did things out of his egotistical nature, to be better than everyone, for the fame and glory, and for the cool cash he’d swipe from banks to pay for his more than gaudy outfits.

“Shut ya trap, Nigma.” Bullock growled out as he heard him bad mouthing the cop fracture. Sure a couple of them were corrupt idiots posing as genuine article, but Gordon was weeding them out – slowly – but more so than any other Commissioner in Gotham could ever hope to say they accomplished. “You keep that crap up I swears I’ll drop this and take ya in right now.” He huffed out a big cloud of smoke at the Riddler, his face stern and lacking any funny business. He certainly was a bull, stubborn and hot-headed, he probably would’ve dragged Nigma back to the precinct if rubbed the wrong way, but then he could’ve completely said Good-Bye to the notion of ever having a “competent” (it killed him to say that) source of information.

There was a moment of silence, a stand down if you will, and once he saw that Nigma might have led the way to stopping the bickering, Harvey continued. “No such luck,” he began as he let the butt of his cigarette fall to the floor and he crushed it under his polished shoe heel. “The bat is still out and about. He leaves everybody his callin’ card.” He pulled out some pictures from his pocket, a yellow spray painted insignia of the Bat sign on the side of various walls around the Police Department turf. “We seen him a couple of times,” though of course no solid confirmation it was him, but he didn’t feel the need to add that bit of information into his piece, somewhere in his gut he knew the Bat was lurking. “There’s also a dame I keep seein’ around,” he ruffled through the pictures to pull out one of Huntress. “She’s new, but not any less fruitier than the rest of ‘em.” He handed the pictures over to Nigma too look at.

“So Nigma,” he never liked calling villains by their alter ego names. Riddler, Two-Face, Mad Hatter, Killer Croc, etc. He called them all by their real names or made fun of them. He knew they all got a power trip when you talked to them like they were different and important; he spoke to them like real people, and used the name their mothers gave them. They weren’t different, they were just retarded. “Seems like you got a little smudge on ya sleeve.” He knew Nigma’s anal attributes when it came to his attire, flecks of ash from Harvey’s previous cigarette left of a few traces of itself onto his jacket, he smiled. “Whether ya fruitcake or not, seems like dirt touches everybody.”

[Edward Nigma]

"Indeed," Riddler brushed the ash and dirt from the cuff of his jacket with his reluctant associate sporting a grin as he took swings at The Riddler's ego.

The Riddler did not care at all for Harvey Bullock. He had no respect for him. He was an oaf, an imbesile. He saw it as quite a generous charity to even let someone like Detective Bullock in the presence of a mind as great as Edward Nigma's.
If it weren't for the fact that Harvey Bullock was somehow a Gotham City detective, whom also had close ties to Jim Gordon and all the higher ups in the GCPD, then The Riddler wouldn't even waste a second on him.

"So you and your department actually think it's Batman you're seeing?" The Riddler asked, grasping ahold of his cane, smiling smuggly. Riddler loved to make people second guess themselves. It was so easy, and in the case of police officers - especially Harvey Bullock, it was exceptionally amusing. He flipped through the photographs that the detective had handed him, each of Batman's insignia spray painted onto buildings and walls. The Riddler smiled, "Batman's never left a calling card before, detective, at least not one so shrewed as a poorly painted sign on the wall."

Harvey seemed to be apprehensive of where The Riddler was going with this as he dropped the photographs back on the floor at Bullock's feet as if it were trash.
"Allow me to explain," Riddler began as if he were taking the floor as an attorney at a trial, "a number of years ago, when our good friend the Batman first began surfacing, he left no calling card. No business card, no tape, no letter, no message, no finger painting on the wall. However, our friend does have a thing for theatrics. I'm sure I don't have to remind you of Carmine Falcone being found strapped to a floodlight creating quite a memorable signal in the sky. That was the only calling card that Batman has left, and it was quite a bit more impressionable then those paintings of yours," Riddler pointed at the photos on the floor, scoffing, "Could you actually imagine The Batman apprehending a suspect after an amazing, epic battle, then pulling out a bucket of paint and making a picture on the wall? No, because all Batman does is beat up criminals, play detective - much like you do - and then recede into the darkness."

Edward paced around in front of Bullock, with his cane leading the way. The filthy alcove they were under made him uneasy, not liking his lack of security, except for the idiot of a driver that took him there, but he was waiting outside the alley. Despite this, The Riddler never showed anything but over confidence and arrogance.

"And these Bat sightings. Maybe it is the Batman, but do you know what the second best selling costume is around Halloween time every year? It's a Batman costume. The first best selling costume being that musclebound boy scout in Metropolis. That could be anyone in any costume out there detective. Next time, how about you bring me an actual photo of Batman instead of these wall paintings?" Riddler became increasingly harsh and sharp with his explainations, "I am positive that this is not the work of Batman. Remember, he has friends. Or had friends, depending on whether he's alive or dead. Don't forget the Boy Wonder, or the rest of his friends. This Huntress that you speak of could also be one of his allies. Any of them could easily paint these bad paintings and go galavanting around in a Batman costume to try and scare people away. Speaking of which, have you seen any of them either? Neither me nor any of my other associates have seen them either. Yet."

The Riddler brushed some more ash from Bullock's cigarette off of his sleeve, "The bat might be dead, but he might be alive as well. Where abouts did you say these sightings were? If I got a look at him myself, then I'd definitely know if it were him or not."
The Riddler unexpectedly moved next to Bullock, putting his arm around the detective, as if they were best buddies, "And Harvey, don't forget our little pact. We help each other bring down the Batman, and I'll be known as the man that uncovered Batman's secret, and who knows, maybe you'll even finally get a promotion downtown eh?"

[Harvey Bullock]

He grinned. Satisfied with himself that he was able to bring about some form of regular human qualities as Nigma wiped down his jacket.

In the end all the crazies and the whack-jobs just needed some method and dose of common sense and reality. How long did they think they were all going to live before father time caught up with them? Would Two-Face and Riddler appreciate looking back at their criminal life styles when they’re all old crones, wetting themselves in nursing homes because no body wants them and probably be mishandled by a worker who had his father capped off by one of their guns.

They probably don’t think about these things – but Bullock did, and eventually the things that you put it come back to bite everyone in the ass, it was a rule of life.

And as Nigma began to speak, it was like college professor scolding you or worse, nails on a chalk board, screeching and groaning and wailing all the while. Harvey wasn’t upset that he was being mocked at and looked down upon for being “less-than-educated”, he was probably right. He never listened to Shubert, read a Tale of Two Cities, heck, he didn’t even have a library card – what got to him was Riddler’s own self-importance. It practically made him want to walk the other way. His pretentiousness bloated his ego to the size of the entire city. It was absolutely disgusting. How could someone so meaningless be so full of himself? Here he was, this green gum drop, asking him for HIS help, and all he was doing was being deconstructive and doushey. If he thought he knew all the answers, why bother?

As Nigma tossed back the pictures to him and landed with a wispy flair, Harvey groaned. He kneeled down slowly, picked up the pictures and put them back into his pocket. He mentally took down the incident in his head – two more strikes and this sucker was gonna get sucker punched in the mouth so hard he’s be shitting teeth for weeks.

He listened, letting the freak-a-zoid take the center stage from now on. Of course he had his concerns, but as Harvey listened, perhaps fueling to his ego more than he had liked to, he gave himself a pat on the back. Not only was he practicing in the difficult art of patience, something Renee Montoya, his usual partner, would emphasize on. By now he probably would’ve decked him a good one in the gut and shipped him off in the nearest paddy wagon he could find. But, he also found out that there were indeed – THINGS – that surpassed even the “great-minded” Riddler’s perspective. Harvey wouldn’t stake on his life that he knew the Bat anymore than the regular joe on the street, but again, people failed to look at these cuckoos as human beings.

And more importantly, human beings with very real motives. And if there was something he was praised for in the department, it was for figuring out motives. He wasn’t like one of those super intellectual nut cases like CSI or Criminal Minds, again, he was just like everybody else, but the passion in his belly, and the temperament that he had, could easily identify with some of the heinous crimes and criminals that people would either overlook or not understand. Sometimes it was the simplest answer that was the correct one, and as he watched Riddler prance around back and forth in the alley way, catching wind of Harvey’s annoyance, he felt even smugger.

At first he thought meeting in a place as small, cramped, and smelling of rotting fish was going to be a bad idea. But in actuality it seemed to be working to his advantage. He had Riddler trapped right within his grasp without a soul to interrupt their fight, if they got into one, which is probably very likely to happen soon if he didn’t start playing ball. He could probably wail on him, drag his body around the garbage cans, messing up his oh-so-perfect suit with slime and rat shit, and then take him back to the slammer where he belongs. All Harvey needed was a little push in the right direction and he’d be more than willing to take Riddler through hell and back – sacrificing his want to find the Bat’s true identity just to feel his fists pound into Riddler’s soft unworked flesh.

“These,” he coughed and gaily responded, trying to point out, what he believed to be Riddler’s overly effeminate voice, “’shrewd paintings’”, he let his voice revert back to it’s usual gruff and tobacco grinded tone, “Were definitely done by him and that side-show party he likes to hang around with. It’s post-earthquake Gotham Nigma, people are makin’ sides to stake out their territory – hell even the other freaks are catchin’ on and doin’ it to. The Bat ain’t got no signal in the sky to point out that people need to be lookin’ ova their shoulders for ‘im, he’s got to find another way to do it, and this is the only way he’s got. Ya don’t beat the system – you make it work for ya.”

He took out another cigarette; he could probably go only about an hour, tops, without smoking. And since he was on the edge here, smoking seemed like the most logical thing to do – much like breathing. “You wanna picture of ‘im?” Harvey chuckled, a low and guttural sound. “Then you go get a picture of him, if ya think it was gonna be that easy then you’d think the tabloids woulda done it by now.” He took in a deep drag of his cigarette and let the smoke drift out from his mouth in a large ash cloud. “And the Bat-pack definitely is doin’ the same thing, but I know he’s still hangin’ around. A couple of rookies down at the precinct who were on the graveyard shift came up ta me saying they saw him. By the way they were practically crapping themselves – I would definitely believe it. And since they been seein him around our place lately, he’s definitely campin’ out near GCPD.”

“Not to mention we’re still getting tips from Oracle and that new dame, Huntress, has been takin’ in you guys like nobody’s business.” As he felt Riddler’s hand slink on his shoulder like a snake, Harvey shook it off and grunted unpleasantly. “For your sake I hope that dame finds you before I beat the crap outta ya.”