Inside, the house was quiet. In the time it took for me to question Adrian, Bullock’s men finished clearing everyone out. There were only one or two CSI’s in the building, taking pictures of the crime scene from behind their own gas masks. One of them jumped when she saw me.
The floor was covered in puddles of liquid. Most of it was identifiable as lean just from the color. I felt bad for the owners of the house, that much alcohol was never going to come out of the wooden floors properly. There were other puddles, too, primarily of vomit, but one or two gave off a strong amonia scent as well. I wasn’t sure if the lean or the venom caused it. I walked past all the puddles, discarded food, and crushed pills, all the while fighting the urge to raise up my cape in disgust.
The room looked like a tornado hit it. The furniture was overturned. All the lamps, chairs, and tables had tumbled to the floor and laid out in awkward positions. I could tell the room used to be covered in pictures, because there were many laying on the floor in their own piles of broken glass. The television was still upright, but the screen was cracked and the picture warped. I deduced that the chances of the partiers doing this themselves was unlikely. Sure, some of the damage was probably caused before the attack, but I found it hard to believe it would have gotten this bad without any attempt to stop the party.
Only one object in the room appeared undisturbed, and that made me suspicious. I walked closer to examine it further.
The object was a picture hanging on the wall adjacent to me. I scanned it with my eyes, searching for clues. There was nothing too suspicious about how it was placed on the wall--if anything it was odd how level it was. The frame was a brown, polished surface, and there was a small plaque at the bottom. The photograph showed a group of young men in suits, standing behind a freshly planted sapling. It was the active members from the year 1978, judging by the plaque. One member in particular stood out like a sore thumb.
“Could be a clue, have your men bag it.” I said.
“What the—” Gordon exclaimed. “No. No that’s not fair! How did you know I was behind you?”
I didn’t feel like explaining to Gordon that seeing his reflection in the glass of the picture frame wasn’t a superhuman feat.
I tapped the picture, “What do you think?”
He grumbled and sighed, “The greatest detective in the world asking what I think...”
Gordon cleaned his glasses and stared at the picture. “Should I recognize one of these guys or something?”
“In this entire photograph, there’s only one Black member pictured. He’s in the back.”
“And it’s the only thing untouched in this entire room,” Jim realized.
“Not exactly,” I said as I pointed to scratches on the wall. I’d only noticed after he approached, but their position and shape indicated that the picture had been knocked from its position and slid down the wall.
“You’re saying it fell? I could see that.” He rubbed his chin, a sure sign that he was thinking something he wasn’t confident enough to say.
“You know what that means, right?” I asked. I didn’t like asking rhetorical questions, but I found they were effective in getting him to speak up. Jim was a good cop, I couldn’t afford for him to grow to self-conscious.
“Well, obviously any picture that falls has to be picked back up. But if you’re suggesting that Joker picked it up-”
“Not Joker,” I interrupted a bit angrier than I wanted to appear. “He’s in Arkham.”
Gordon gave me a pedantic look. Projected on the whites of his eyes was every failure I’d experienced concerning the psychotic clown.
“And you’ve verified that?” He asked.
“Working on it,” was my curt response.
Gordon sighed, “Batman, usually you’re the first one-”
“A blackface frat party where all the attendees get sprayed with black paint, Jim! A room torn apart but the only unharmed decoration is a picture of a Black pledge. Probably the first if not the only Black member of this chapter. Don’t act like this is Joker’s M.O.”
He created a barrier between us with his palms. “Okay, okay. You have a point there. So are we saying this guy here’s the suspect?”
“You’re thinking too much like a cop,” I said, “It’s not that simple. Look into him if you want, but I doubt you’d find anything conclusive. Rehanging the picture was an act of respect, not of egoism.”
“I get it, someone unrelated. This is a racial crime.”
I didn’t love the way he said the category, but I let it slide.
“One of my officers mentioned hearing talk about backlash from the university’s Black Student Union when the news hit,” Jim said while slipping on a pair of gloves.
“Could be worth looking into,” I agreed. “But I’m still skeptical. Bullock’s witness said there was one perp. I don’t think the average college student could manage to pull off something like this on a whim. Why would they have the Joker Venom on hand?”
Jim nodded. With dancer-like grace, he raised the frame from it’s setting and turned it over. There was no opening; the picture had been glued to the wood, then glass was placed on top of it.
“There goes that theory,” he said.
“And that’s another thing.” I said, “Joker always leaves a calling card. If your officers didn’t see it when they first walked in, it probably doesn’t exist.”
“So we’re dealing with a Joker copycat. Most likely Black, hates racists and pulls pranks to shame them.” Jim sighed, “I need to get out of this city.”
Suddenly, Harvey Bullock came running into the room, holding his phone aloft.
“Ya guys see this!”
Gordon and I turned to him. The commissioner took the phone out of Bullock’s hands, and the detective bent to gasp for air.
“Calls...himself...Minstrel,” Bullock said.
End Chapter 3.
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