The East End precinct lobby was a circus.
Marco pushed through the front doors, still moving carefully because of his bruised ribs, and immediately spotted the source of the commotion. A well-dressed man in his forties was gesticulating wildly at the front desk, speaking rapid-fire French that was getting louder with every sentence. The desk officer was responding in equally loud English, neither man understanding the other, both convinced volume would somehow bridge the language gap. And surrounding them, like spectators at a prize fight, were about six officers who'd dragged chairs over to watch.
He spotted Darnell among them, sitting comfortably with his feet propped up on an evidence box.
"This is outrageous," Marco muttered, grabbing an empty chair from the break room.
Nobody had even called him to tell him about the entertainment. He dragged the chair over and lined it up behind the others. "What's going on?"
"French guy got his wallet stolen," Darnell said without looking away from the show. "He came in to report it but decided to be a dick about how we do things here. He had the bad luck of running into Dadrian."
"What's Dadrian got against the French?"
"Everything, ever since last year's World Cup." Darnell leaned back in his chair. "He bet heavily on a team full of the most expensive players in the world. Then they lost to France, and this bald French guy wearing number ten completely dominated the match."
Marco blinked. "He's holding a grudge against an entire country because of a soccer game?"
"Football," one of the other officers corrected. "And yeah. He lost about three grand on that match. Been salty ever since."
"Jesus Christ."
The argument at the desk was reaching a crescendo. The French tourist was now waving his passport and pointing at Dadrian while shouting. Dadrian, for his part, was calmly filling out a form and completely ignoring everything the man was saying.
Darnell shifted his chair to make room for Marco. "You want me to break it up?"
"Give it another minute. I want to see how this plays out."
That's when the front doors opened again, and Bob hurried in. When he spotted Marco, he immediately waved him over.
"We need to talk."
Marco sighed and stood up, ignoring Darnell's disappointed groan. "Alright, everyone. Show's over. Someone who speaks French go deal with this before it turns into an international incident."
He followed Bob toward the stairs.
---
Bob didn't bother turning on the overhead lights, just flicked on the desk lamp and started patting his pockets looking for his cigarettes.
Marco lowered himself into the guest chair.
"You okay?" Bob asked, finally locating his cigarettes and lighter.
"I'm fine. Just need to recover slowly. Probably one or two weeks." Marco waved it off. "So? How'd it go?"
Bob lit his cigarette and took a long drag. "The effect was pretty good. The families were grateful. The press ate it up. But when I was facing the cameras..." He exhaled smoke. "I didn't say much."
Marco stared at him. "Are you kidding me? That was a golden opportunity."
"I know what it was."
"Then why didn't you take it? The conscience of society, the responsibility of police officers, leadership accountability, public safety, the department's determination... You know how to say all that shit. You've given versions of that speech a dozen times."
"Of course I know how to say it." Bob flicked ash into the tray on his desk. "But the greater the benefits, the greater the risks. What if I got too fired up and ended up taking the blame for Loeb? What if the mayor decided to make me responsible for catching Black Mask?"
He pointed toward the window with his cigarette.
"When that happens, I can't shoulder that pressure alone. I'd have to force you guys to go up there and die. If one-third of the people in the East End survive, that'd already be a miracle."
He took another drag, studying Marco through the smoke.
"Of course, if I had a few hundred of you, maybe I'd risk my life and try. But the people out there?" He jerked his thumb toward the bullpen. "Even if they all died, it wouldn't help."
"Wow." Marco's voice was flat. "So my life doesn't count for shit. Good to know."
"Your life counts for plenty. That's why I'm not throwing it away on a publicity stunt." Bob stubbed out his cigarette, already reaching for another. "Look, I get it. Bigger risk, bigger reward. And yeah, by taking a step back, I might lose out to someone else. But playing it safe is better than playing dead."
Marco wanted to argue, but he couldn't. Bob was right. The smart play was to let Loeb take the heat and wait for the fallout to settle before making a move.
"There's something else you need to know," Bob continued, lighting his second cigarette. "Last night, Black Mask kidnapped a reporter. He forced him to film the entire attack on headquarters, then let him go."
"Shit."
"Yeah. Luckily the guy had enough sense not to rush to publish it. But it's not going to stay buried for long." Bob exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. "Once that footage hits the news, all hell's going to break loose. We need to get ahead of it. Or at least make sure the East End doesn't get dragged into the clusterfuck."
"So what's the plan?"
"Meeting everyone who matters."
---
The conference room gradually filled with about twenty people, supervisors, captains, and department heads from the East End precinct. Marco took a quick look around as he settled into a chair near the back. Most of them looked tired. Albert, sitting near the front, had a fresh bruise on his jaw and was avoiding eye contact with everyone. Probably tried to dodge paying the officers back and got clocked for it.
Bob entered last, closing the door behind him and taking his seat at the head of the table.
"Alright. Everyone knows what happened at headquarters last night." He didn't waste time with pleasantries. "The incident has severely damaged the GCPD's credibility. We can't allow this kind of thing to continue. So I want everyone to brainstorm and see if we can find a way to repair the department's public image. But first, I need to emphasize a few principles."
He looked around the room, making eye contact with each officer in turn.
"No one from the East End is allowed to show false confidence or intense hatred toward the criminals in front of the media. No one is allowed to accept any orders from headquarters regarding case assistance without authorization. If anyone unexpectedly discovers the criminals, they must report it and wait for instructions. No unauthorized charges or manhunts. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir!" The response was uniform.
They'd heard variations of this speech countless times before. Bob's golden rule: don't stick your neck out for headquarters. Let them fight their own battles.
His expression shifted slightly, and he gestured toward a quiet corner of the room where Edward was sitting.
"Before we continue, we should properly introduce someone. We've just established a new Forensics Division, and the person in charge was transferred from headquarters, Edward Nygma."
Edward stood up, looking uncomfortable with the attention.
"He's a talent that Captain Vitale went to great lengths to recruit. And I'm not exaggerating when I say he might be the smartest man in Gotham. In that cult case earlier, if it hadn't been for him, the GCPD would still be running around the streets."
Enthusiastic applause broke out immediately. Edward raised his hand in an awkward wave, his face flushing red.
The applause grew even louder.
Marco knew this welcome was genuine. The East End had never cared much for labels like "genius" or "hero." Only practical benefits won them over. And Edward represented something very practical: someone else to do the thinking.
What? You're the smartest person around? Great, I don't have to use my brain.
What? You're the bravest? Perfect, I don't have to charge into the front lines.
What? You're the highest-ranking? Wonderful, sir, this place is yours to handle.
What? You get the biggest bonus? That's... actually, that might be a problem. Watch your back.
But Edward didn't understand the unspoken rules yet. He was genuinely excited, glowing with pride. He opened his notebook and began explaining his analysis of Black Mask and the direction of the follow-up investigation.
"I've looked into the identities of the mercenaries stationed in front of Arkham. They're a second- or third-rate European outfit. Their contact was made through an unregistered prepaid SIM card, which makes them difficult to trace. If we could obtain the call records and account transaction histories of those two moles at headquarters, we might be able to uncover more connections. But for now..."
He shook his head, looking disappointed.
"There are just too few leads to pursue safely."
He meant it as a professional assessment. But to the East End officers, it was music to their ears.
Insufficient evidence. Too dangerous to pursue. Case closed. This kid gets it. He's one of us.
Bob pointed at Edward with his borrowed cigarette, addressing the room. "See? Wasn't I right? His intelligence is unmatched. If we weren't so tight on funds right now, I'd immediately build a state-of-the-art forensic lab and autopsy room. Otherwise, it'd be a terrible waste of his brain."
The moment the word "funds" left his mouth, every pair of eyes in the room snapped toward Marco like zombies spotting fresh meat. Marco kept his expression neutral, pretending he hadn't noticed the sudden attention.
Fucking vultures.
Bob cleared his throat, drawing their focus back.
"That conclusion is very good. That's exactly how we'll report it to headquarters and the city government. Now, there's a second matter. Don Falcone got robbed again last night, and he's furious."
The room went quiet.
"This one won't be easy to deal with. His people might take to the streets and start slaughtering anyone they think is involved. We need to smooth things over before that happens."
Marco sighed and raised his hand slightly. "I'll handle it. I'll go to the estate again."
Several officers relaxed, smiles appearing on their faces. Of course Marco would handle it. That's what he did.
"Good," Bob said. "And there's a third thing. Don't spread this outside the room, but during a city government meeting this morning, several councilors said they'd received inside information that the world is about to end."
The words landed like a bomb.
The conference room erupted into chaos. Officers talking over each other, voices rising, chairs scraping against the floor as people stood up.
"Quiet! Quiet!" Bob slammed his hand on the table hard enough to rattle the coffee cups.
The room fell silent.
"According to them, there's a good chance that a global nuclear war will break out in less than a year. Something about computers failing at midnight on January 1st, 2000, causing missile systems to malfunction."
He scratched at his thinning hair.
"Does anyone here know what this millennium bug thing is all about?"