"Who is the... Holiday Killer?"
The voice came from the left side of Jude's system screen, accompanied by the image of a man who looked like a living question mark had achieved sentience and decided to dress itself.
He stood in what appeared to be an office. Every surface was covered in evidence: newspaper clippings, crime scene photographs, hand-drawn diagrams connecting victims and dates and locations with red string that would have made any conspiracy theorist weep with envy.
The man himself was a study in obsessive aesthetics.
He wore a green suit—not forest green or emerald or any subtle shade, but green green, the kind of eye-searing lime that hurt to look at directly. The fabric was covered, head to toe, in question marks of varying sizes. Tiny ones clustered around his collar. Medium-sized ones marched down his lapels. Large ones dominated his back like punctuation declaring his entire existence was uncertain.
A bowler hat sat at a jaunty angle on his head, a massive question mark emblazoned on its crown. Green gloves covered his hands. His trousers were slim-cut and perfectly tailored despite being the color of radioactive algae. A black eye patch covered his right eye, giving him a rakish, piratical air that clashed wonderfully with the accountant precision of his posture.
He carried a cane—not for support, but for style—topped with a curved handle shaped like, naturally, a question mark.
Edward Nygma. The Riddler.
St. Patrick's Day had long passed, but the Riddler's outfit had nothing to do with seasonal celebration. He wore green because green was his brand. His identity. His entire psychological profile distilled into a color scheme and an obsession with puzzles.
Jude had read the files. The Riddler was, depending on who you asked, either Gotham's most brilliant super-criminal or its most annoying. Not because he was particularly evil—he lacked the Joker's sadistic glee or the Penguin's ruthless pragmatism. Not because he was especially dangerous—his body count was relatively low by Gotham standards.
No, the Riddler was halted because he was insufferable.
A narcissist with a pathological need to prove his intelligence. A man so desperate for validation that he compulsively left clues at crime scenes, not because he wanted to be caught, but because he needed people to witness how clever he was. Every puzzle was a challenge. Every riddle was a gauntlet thrown at Batman's feet, daring the Dark Knight to match wits.
And Batman always won.
The Riddler would commit elaborate crimes, leave intricate puzzles, taunt the GCPD with cryptic messages... and then get hauled back to Arkham Asylum, fuming that nobody appreciated his genius.
Jude remembered reading an interview transcript from one of the Riddler's psychiatric evaluations:
"If you didn't leave clues to your crimes, wouldn't you avoid capture?"
"I don't want to go back to Arkham. But I can't help myself. I might need help. Maybe I'm crazy."
Even the words he chose—might, maybe, perhaps—revealed a mind incapable of accepting its own dysfunction.
Jude also remembered, with a groan, certain video games he'd played in his original world. The Riddler placing hundreds of trophies across Gotham City. Hidden in every corner, under every bridge, on top of every building. If you wanted to catch him, you had to find them all. Every. Single. One.
It was torture disguised as gameplay.
From the bottom of his heart, Jude understood why Gotham citizens shouted: "Riddler, get the hell out of our city."
But as annoying as the Riddler was, he was also genuinely brilliant. You didn't match wits with Batman repeatedly and survive without exceptional intelligence. The fact that he always lost said more about Batman than it did about Nygma's capabilities.
And right now, that brilliant, obsessive mind was focused on the same question as—
"Who is the Holiday Killer?"
The voice came from the right side of the screen.
Different location. Different man. Same question.
Batman stood in the Batcave, cowl pushed back to reveal Bruce Wayne's angular face, dark circles under his eyes that spoke of weeks without proper sleep. Behind him, monitors displayed crime scene photographs. Forensic analysis. Victim profiles. The same evidence the Riddler was studying, but organized with military precision rather than manic energy.
Alfred Pennyworth stood at Bruce's shoulder, holding a .22 caliber pistol with gloved hands, examining it under a magnifying lens with the kind of patient attention he probably used when polishing the family silver.
Two of the world's greatest minds, separated by miles and moral philosophy, asking the same question at the same moment.
Jude sat in his apartment eating popcorn, watching both investigations play out simultaneously on his system screen like the world's most intense split-screen drama.
He hadn't installed surveillance equipment in the Riddler's office or the Batcave. He didn't have that kind of access or capability, and honestly, attempting to bug Batman would be suicide.
Fortunately, the system was user-friendly enough to provide the feed without requiring him to risk his life.
A notification banner appeared at the bottom of the screen:
SYSTEM MISSION ACTIVATED
April Fool's Day Game of Wisdom
Mission Introduction: On this day when everyone tells lies, some people want to seek the truth. Isn't that a very strange thing?
Note: The idiot bar doesn't accept real idiots. Time to prove your strength, bro.
Task: Use reasoning to confirm or falsify inference objects. Each successful reasoning earns one level of "Acting Mastery."
Reward:
First correct reasoning: Acting Mastery (Beginner)
Second correct reasoning: Acting Mastery (Intermediate)
Third correct reasoning: Acting Mastery (Advanced)
Status: In Progress (0/3)
Jude read the mission parameters, grabbed another handful of popcorn, and settled in to watch.
This was going to be interesting.
On the left side of the screen, the Riddler circled his evidence table like a predator stalking prey. His voice carried that particular quality of someone who loved the sound of his own deductions.
"It is a mystery," he said, gesturing dramatically with his cane, "broken into the scattered pieces of a tangram puzzle—wrapped in a riddle—hidden in a box."
He picked up items one by one, arranging them in chronological order:
Pumpkin Lantern. Halloween.
Cornucopia. Thanksgiving. Irish Gang
A champagne Glass. New Year's Day.
A heart-shaped box of chocolates. Valentine's Day.
A small portrait of a leprechaun with a shamrock wand. St. Patrick's Day.
"These items could easily be obtained from any thrift store," the Riddler mused, "or made by anyone with basic crafting skills. They were chosen specifically to represent the date of each killing."
On the right side of the screen, Batman performed identical motions. He stood at his workstation in the Batcave, examining the same evidence—or rather, perfect replicas he'd collected from crime scenes, analyzed, catalogued with obsessive precision.
"They're all holidays," both men said in near-perfect unison, though they couldn't hear each other. "Just like today—April Fool's Day."
Jude grabbed more popcorn. "That's right," he said to his empty apartment, as if the detectives could hear him. "Gold star for both of you."
The Riddler picked up a .22 caliber pistol, turning it over in his gloved hands with the reverence of someone handling a particularly elegant puzzle box. Two other pistols lay on his desk.
He smiled, the expression sharp and self-satisfied. "A riddle."
In the Batcave, Alfred held an identical weapon, examining it through a forensic magnifying lens while Batman watched the spectroscopy analysis run on a nearby monitor.
"A killer," Batman said, his voice flat, emotionless, reducing the Holiday Killer to a problem requiring solution.
"That's right," Jude repeated, stuffing more popcorn into his mouth. The dual investigation was fascinating in its contrasts—the Riddler theatrical and verbose, Batman methodical and cold. But they were reaching the same conclusions through different paths.
The Riddler reached his favorite part of any investigation: asking questions.
"Why," he said, voice rising with the kind of excitement other people reserved for winning the lottery, "does the Holiday Killer always use the same weapon?"
He paused dramatically, savoring the moment before his own answer.
"Because he bought them wholesale!"
Jude nearly choked on his popcorn. "No, no," he muttered, shaking his head. "Any large-scale .22 purchase would have been thoroughly investigated by Batman months ago. The GCPD might be corrupt, but Batman has access to every gun sale record in the city. Try again."
The Riddler must have reached the same conclusion, because his smile faded into a frown. He set the pistol down, reconsidered, picked it back up.
"Or," he said slowly, "let's be more practical. These .22s are light. Easy to carry. Easy to conceal. Perfect for a—" his smile returned, predatory, "—a lady."
On the right screen, Batman pulled up a file. Selina Kyle's face appeared on the monitor—caught mid-leap during a rooftop chase, black catsuit gleaming, expression fierce and beautiful and utterly unrepentant.
The Riddler continued his reasoning, pacing now, energy building like a conductor reaching a crescendo.
"During the break-in last June, she opened Mr. Falcone's safe. Stole the ledgers. The lists. Every name in the Roman's empire, all the dirty secrets, all the connections—suddenly she had a target list and intimate knowledge of Gotham's criminal underground."
He jabbed his cane toward the ceiling as if pointing at Catwoman herself.
"Add to that the million-dollar bounty Falcone placed on her head. She's being hunted by every criminal in the city. Her best defense—"
"—becomes an active offense," Batman finished on the other screen, his voice grim.
They'd reached the same conclusion. Catwoman as the Holiday Killer. It fit the evidence: the weapon choice, the access to information, the motive for targeting Falcone's people, the escalating violence as she fought for survival.
Jude set down his popcorn bowl.
"No," he said firmly, as if the detectives could hear him. "No, that doesn't work."
He stood up, paced his own apartment, mirroring the Riddler's restless energy.
"Catwoman is a thief, not a killer. She steals. She doesn't murder." Jude counted on his fingers. "First problem: motive. Yes, she stole from Falcone. Yes, there's a bounty. But Selina's response to being hunted isn't systematic assassination—it's disappearing. Going to ground. She's a cat, not a shark. She evades, not attacks."
He grabbed the popcorn bowl again, gesturing with it like a prop.
"Second problem: the Irish Gang. The Thanksgiving victims." Jude pointed at the screen as if the Riddler could see him. "Mickey, Jimmy, Kevin, Willy, and Donny—they weren't Falcone family members. They were hired muscle. Contractors. Killing them doesn't hurt Falcone's empire in any meaningful way. If Catwoman was targeting the organization, she'd go after lieutenants, capos, people whose deaths would create power vacuums."
He paced faster, warming to his argument.
"Third problem: target shift. Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day—all the victims were Maroni people. Four guards outside Maroni's restaurant. Dozens of Maroni's inner circle at a secret hideout. If this was about Catwoman defending herself from Falcone, why would she massacre Maroni's crew? They're not hunting her. They're busy fighting Falcone."
Jude stopped pacing, looked directly at the screen where the Riddler was still admiring his own theory.
"The motive is wrong. The targets don't fit. This isn't Catwoman."
A chime sounded. Text appeared across both halves of his screen:
REASONING ACCEPTED
Theory Evaluated: "Catwoman as Holiday Killer" Status: DISPROVEN Evidence: Target inconsistency, motive failure, pattern break
Task Status: In Progress (1/3)
Reward Earned: Acting Mastery (Beginner)
Jude returned his attention to the screens.
The Riddler had moved on, still unaware his Catwoman theory was flawed. But Batman—
Batman had paused. Stared at the evidence. Frowned.
"No," the Dark Knight said quietly. "Not Catwoman. The pattern doesn't fit."
Alfred glanced up from the pistol. "Sir?"
"The Irish Gang weren't family. They were contractors. Catwoman doesn't kill contractors." Batman pulled up more files, photographs of massacre scenes. "Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day—all Maroni targets. If this was defensive killing, the targets would be consistent. They're not."
He closed Selina's file with a gesture that looked almost like relief.
"The Holiday Killer isn't Catwoman."
The Riddler, however, was still pursuing his doomed line of reasoning, completely enamored with his own cleverness. He'd probably figure it out eventually—the man was brilliant, just also insufferable.
On the right screen, Batman had already moved to his next suspect.
"From the outset," he said, voice taking on that flat, analytical quality he used when building a case, "these killings benefited one person more than anyone else: Salvatore Maroni."
Alfred set down the pistol, gave Batman his full attention.
"Maroni is the Romans' main antagonist. His primary obstacle to controlling Gotham City is Falcone's organization." Batman pulled up an organizational chart showing the Falcone family structure—names, positions, connections, all color-coded and cross-referenced.
Red X's marked the dead.
Johnny Vitti. Alberto Falcone. The Irish Gang contractors. All losses that weakened Falcone's position.
"He weakened the Falcone family with each murder," Batman continued. "Became more daring with each kill. Halloween, Thanksgiving, New Year's—all Falcone people. The killer is systematically dismantling the Roman's empire."
He zoomed in on Alberto Falcone's photograph. The young man smiled in the image, glasses catching the light, looking every inch the legitimate businessman his father had wanted him to become.
"Who else would shoot Falcone's own son in the back on New Year's Eve?" Batman's voice carried cold fury.