"No, no." Jude shook his head, still watching Batman's careful case construction against Maroni. "That doesn't work either."
He set down his popcorn bowl and stood, pacing his apartment while counting problems on his fingers.
"First issue: Richard. You're assuming Maroni forced Richard's resignation—but there's no evidence of that. He could have resigned from stress, political pressure, guilt, exhaustion. Assuming Maroni orchestrated it is speculation without proof."
Jude pointed at the screen where Batman was studying Alberto's file.
"Second issue: Alberto himself. He had nothing to do with the family business. The Roman kept him deliberately separate—sent him to legitimate schools, got him legitimate jobs, tried to build him a legitimate future. Alberto was the Godfather's hope. His chance at redemption through a son who wouldn't inherit blood-stained hands."
He grabbed his popcorn again, eating while thinking.
"Killing Alberto doesn't weaken Falcone strategically—it makes him more dangerous. A Godfather with nothing to lose, no heir to protect, no hope for legitimacy? That's a man with no reason to show restraint. Maroni would be signing his own death warrant."
Jude sat back down, warming to his argument.
"But the biggest problem? The math doesn't work. Halloween through New Year's. Johnny Vitti, the Irish Gang, Alberto. But then Valentine's Day and St. Patrick's Day—dozens of Maroni people die."
He gestured emphatically at the screen.
"How does that make sense as Maroni's strategy? 'I'll kill Falcone's people, then murder more of my own people, including my most trusted bodyguards, to... what? Throw off suspicion?' That's not tactics. That's suicide with extra steps."
Jude shook his head firmly.
"Maroni is a gangster boss, not a foolish lunatic. He wouldn't orchestrate his own organization's destruction. The theory doesn't hold."
A chime sounded. Text scrolled across his screen:
REASONING ACCEPTED
Theory Evaluated: "Salvatore Maroni as Holiday Killer" Status: DISPROVEN
Evidence: Motive inconsistency, strategic nonsense, self-destructive pattern
Task Status: In Progress (2/3)
Reward Earned: Acting Mastery (Intermediate)
On the screen, the Riddler had moved to his next theory. His voice carried that particular enthusiasm of someone about to reveal what they believed was a brilliant deduction.
"Question!" The Riddler raised one finger theatrically. "Why did the killer shoot Alberto Falcone?"
He paused for effect, smile widening.
"Answer: Because he can."
The response was pure Riddler—cryptic, self-satisfied, and utterly tone-deaf to the emotional weight of the question.
A figure sitting in the shadows of the Riddler's office suddenly leaned forward. Fists clenched. Veins bulged on a scarred face. The motion was violent, predatory, the kind of movement that preceded broken bones and spilled blood.
The Riddler's smile faltered.
Carmine "The Roman" Falcone emerged from the darkness, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees.
The Godfather's face was a mask of barely controlled rage. The three parallel scars across his cheek looked particularly hideous when his expression twisted with fury. His eyes burned with the kind of cold hatred that had built an empire on fear and violence.
Behind him, a mountain of muscle and menace shifted position. The enforcer glared at the Riddler with the focused intensity of a predator selecting which bone to break first.
The Riddler's theatrical confidence evaporated instantly. An awkward, nervous smile replaced it—the expression of someone realizing they'd just tap-danced across a landmine.
"I, uh..." The Riddler's voice cracked slightly. He gestured helplessly with his cane. "I just wanted to say that Alberto wasn't involved in the family business. He was innocent. Which makes his death particularly... puzzling."
His recovery attempt was desperate, transparent, and probably the only thing that saved his life in that moment.
Falcone's expression didn't soften, but he settled back into his chair. The enforcer remained standing, hands still positioned to deliver violence at a moment's notice.
The Riddler swallowed hard and continued, voice less confident now, more careful.
"The question then becomes: could all of this killing be motivated by personal vendetta?"
Jude scratched his head, watching the scene unfold. "Revenge? That's... actually possible. Someone with deep hatred for both families. Someone who could get close to Alberto without raising suspicion."
The Riddler, clearly trying to regain his footing and aware that his life might depend on providing answers, launched into his next theory.
"Carla Vitti," he said, pulling out a photograph of a woman with hard eyes and a mouth set in a permanent line of grief. "Mr. Falcone's sister."
He arranged evidence on his desk, building the case piece by piece.
"Her son, Johnny Vitti, was supposed to testify against Mr. Falcone before the grand jury. It was no secret how the Romans wanted to silence his nephew."
The Riddler glanced nervously at Falcone, who watched with unreadable eyes.
"But what if..." The Riddler's voice took on that manic energy again, caught up in the puzzle. "What if Carla Vitti did the unthinkable? What if this mother killed her own son to hide her identity as the Holiday Killer?"
He paced faster, gesturing with his cane.
"Think about it! Johnny dies on Halloween—the first victim. Everyone assumes it's gang-related, or that Falcone had him silenced. But what if Carla killed him herself, knowing that his death would provide perfect cover? 'Of course she's not the killer—she lost her son!' It's brilliant misdirection."
The Riddler's enthusiasm was building despite the danger.
"Now her crimes are masked by rage. She can attack anyone she wants because nobody will suspect her. A grieving mother? Above suspicion. She has access to both families. She knows their schedules, their habits, their vulnerabilities."
He pointed at another photograph—Alberto Falcone on his yacht, smiling, alive.
"She was there during the New Year's Eve incident. How else could anyone get close to Alberto without alerting him? He knew his aunt. Trusted her. Let her approach while he celebrated on that yacht."
The Riddler's voice dropped to a dramatic whisper.
"In that sense, it's more like a son for a son. Johnny for Alberto. A mother's twisted justice—she kills her own child, then takes Falcone's child in return. After a while, she returns to the scene, plays the grieving sister, and nobody suspects a thing."
Jude stared at the screen, popcorn forgotten in his hand.
He thought about it for a long moment.
Then shook his head.
"Killing her own son, then taking revenge on Falcone?" Jude said to his empty apartment. "That logic is too abstract. Too convoluted. Unless..."
He paused.
"Unless Johnny was murdered by someone Falcone hired. If the Godfather ordered his own nephew's death, and Carla discovered it, then the revenge motive makes sense."
Jude nodded slowly, working through it.
"Okay. Let's say Falcone hired someone to kill Johnny before he could testify. Carla finds out. She goes insane with grief and rage. She becomes the Holiday Killer to destroy everything her brother loves. The logic is perfect."
But.
"But it still doesn't explain the Irish Gang's deaths. They weren't Falcone family. Why would Carla waste bullets on hired muscle who had nothing to do with Johnny's death?"
Jude grabbed more popcorn, chewing thoughtfully.
"And it doesn't explain why the Holiday Killer turned on Maroni. Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day—all Maroni targets. If Carla's revenge was focused on Falcone for killing her son, why massacre Maroni's people? After completing revenge on her son's murderer, there's no reason to help Falcone eliminate his rival."
He shook his head again.
"Plus—would the Godfather really do it? When Johnny was about to confess in court, Falcone didn't resort to murder. He tried other methods. But he didn't kill his own nephew."
Jude thought about Falcone's psychology, what he'd observed during the tree planting ceremonies.
"The Godfather is old-fashioned. Traditional. He operates by a code—twisted, violent, but consistent. An old-fashioned gangster wouldn't come up with this kind of novel, theatrical killing method. Holiday themes. Baby pacifiers. Elaborate symbolism."
He gestured at the screen.
"Falcone's style is a bullet to the head and walk away. Clean. Professional. Cautious. This Holiday Killer is performing. Making statements. That's not the Roman's methodology."
Another chime. Text appeared:
REASONING ACCEPTED
Theory Evaluated: "Carla Vitti as Holiday Killer"
Status: DISPROVEN Evidence: Incomplete motive coverage, target inconsistency, methodological mismatch
Task Status: COMPLETE (3/3)
Reward Earned: Acting Mastery (Advanced)
Jude grabbed another handful of popcorn, confused. The mission was complete—three theories evaluated, three rewards earned. Why was the feed still active?
On the right side of the screen, in the Batcave, something had shifted.
Alfred Pennyworth set down the teacup he'd been holding, his expression thoughtful. The old butler had been silent throughout Batman's investigation, but now he spoke with the careful precision of someone choosing each word deliberately.
"If I may interrupt for a moment, Master."
Batman turned, gave Alfred his full attention.
"In all your reasoning," Alfred continued, voice gentle but firm, "there is one person who has been completely overlooked."
Batman's jaw tightened slightly. "Julian Day."
Calendar Man. The serial killer who'd predicted the Holiday Killer's pattern, who sat in Arkham Asylum offering cryptic prophecies and calendar-based murder theories.
"But according to Arkham's records, I believe Calendar Man is still in their custody," Batman said.
"That's not the person I was referring to."
The temperature in the Batcave seemed to drop.
Jude leaned forward, popcorn forgotten. He knew where this was going. Alfred knew. Alfred had probably known for months.
Batman turned slowly to face his butler. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The question hung in the air between them, unasked but understood.
Alfred's expression was infinitely sad.
"I simply wanted to point out," the old man said carefully, "that in my experience, one's pursuit of justice—when pursued by someone as rational as yourself, as devoted and intelligent and absolutely committed—"
He paused.
"—can lead them to do the most unexpected things."
Jude felt his chest tighten. The corners of his mouth twitched, caught between horror and something like vindication.
Alfred wasn't talking about Batman.
He was talking about Harvey Dent.
The silence stretched. Batman stood motionless, processing the implication. Alfred waited patiently, giving his master time to work through the logical chain.
Finally, Batman spoke.
"Commissioner Gordon told me Harvey was also late getting home on New Year's Eve."
The night Alberto Falcone died.
"Harvey went to the Wayne Manor on Valentine's Day," Batman continued, voice flat, emotionless, the way it got when he was forcing himself to remain objective. "Late in the evening. We spoke for several minutes. The news of the attack on Maroni's restaurant arrived after we'd separated."
The atmosphere in the Batcave felt heavy, oppressive. Alfred stood silently, letting Bruce work through it.
"What are you going to do now, Master?" Alfred asked finally.
Batman was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that had nothing to do with the cowl.
"Pray I'm wrong. And pray my monitoring has the desired effect."
He pulled up another file. Harvey Dent's face appeared on screen—square-jawed, handsome, intense. Gotham's White Knight. The District Attorney who'd sworn to save the city through law instead of vigilantism.
"Harvey Dent," Batman said, and the name sounded like a confession.
Jude scratched his head, staring at the screen.
"It shouldn't be Harvey," he muttered. "I've done so much. Christmas Eve—I intervened. The Holiday Killer didn't commit crimes on Christmas Day. That shows my efforts had an effect. I helped stop it."
But then the killings had resumed. Valentine's Day. St. Patrick's Day.
"The only strange thing is..." Jude frowned. "Why did the Holiday Killer continue the spree afterward? If it really is Harvey and Harvey stopped on Christmas, what made him start again?"
Nobody responded. The system's mission had ended. The feed continued, but there was no voice to confirm or deny his reasoning.
Jude couldn't tell if his theory was right or wrong. The system had gone silent.
He could only watch.
On the left side of the screen, the Riddler was having a much worse time.
The Godfather's expression had remained cold throughout the Carla Vitti theory. Now, as silence stretched and no new revelations emerged, Falcone's patience was clearly exhausted.
"Mr. Nygma." The Godfather's voice was soft, which made it more terrifying. "People tell me there's no riddle in the world you can't solve."
The Riddler swallowed hard.
"And now," Falcone continued, standing slowly, "you're just laying out one guess after another. Piling them on top of each other like children's blocks. But you haven't been able to find a more certain answer among them."
He moved closer. The enforcer behind him mirrored the movement, a synchronized dance of threat.
"I can't—" the Riddler started.
He never finished.
The enforcer's massive hands suddenly clamped onto the Riddler's head. One hand removed his green bowler hat with almost gentle precision. Then both hands settled on the Riddler's temples, positioned like a vise.
The Riddler's eyes went wide with terror.
"If your life depended on it," Falcone said calmly, conversationally, as if discussing the weather, "and it does—"
The hands began to squeeze.
The Riddler screamed. Not the theatrical wail of someone playing at pain, but genuine, animal terror. The pressure on his skull was immense, professional, the kind of torture that damaged without killing immediately.
His skull compressed. Facial features distorted. Blood vessels burst in his eyes. More blood began flowing from his nose, his mouth, his ears—thin red streams running down his cheeks like tears.
The enforcer's hands squeezed tighter.
The Riddler made a choking sound. His skull felt like it was being rolled into a ball, crushed like tin foil, reshaped into something that no longer resembled human anatomy.
Falcone watched impassively.
"Tell me," the Godfather said, each word measured and cold. "Who is the Holiday Killer?"
The Riddler tried to think. Tried to reason. But his brain was being compressed, thoughts scattering like dropped marbles. Every suspect they'd discussed flashed through his mind—Catwoman, Maroni, Carla Vitti, the theories they'd built and discarded.
None of them fit perfectly.
None of them explained everything.
But he needed an answer. Now. Before his skull cracked. Before his brain hemorrhaged. Before the enforcer's hands met in the middle and turned Edward Nygma into a cautionary tale about asking the wrong questions.
Cold sweat mixed with blood on the Riddler's face. His vision blurred. His hearing faded to a high-pitched whine. He felt death approaching—not metaphorically, but literally, measured in seconds by the increasing pressure on his temples.
He opened his mouth. Blood bubbled between his lips. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, trembling and desperate and almost inaudible.
But the name was clear enough.
"Carmine Falcone?"
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