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Chapter Text

The red light remained static, as if taunting him with the long wait. It didn’t help the rising sense of rush in the detective’s nerves, who considered for just a moment running over the light to catch the bus he was tracking. Maybe the lack of over-the-top heroics had sent his starving adrenaline eager for more. Cold cases were not expected to prompt a chase around the city, after all.

When the light finally turned green, the detective was the first to go.

The streets in Gotham didn’t make his transit easy, despite his motorcycle’s impressive speed. The roads were too full with the usual early traffic, as people rushed to get to work or school. Or elsewhere, as it was the case of one suspicious Daniel Nightingale, who took a long ride away from his usual haunts.

After the late-night visit to The Shadow Parlor, the detective was convinced there was something suspicious about the so-called medium. A suspicion that had started when Nightingale was revealed to be the last person to see the victim alive, and that was later fueled by his strange behavior.

While the detective already knew where Nightingale lived,—a small studio close to the magic shop in a cramped and crowded building—, he slipped a discreet tracker on the man’s jacket to figure out any other unusual whereabouts.

When the early morning came, the tracker alerted the detective to movement outside of The Cauldron’s limits. Most importantly, to an area too far away from the shop Daniel Nightingale worked at. It occurred to the detective that his mark would not make it in time for the shift he declared to start at noon.

While the detective preferred to work discreetly and under the cover of the night, he couldn’t let this lead alone, so he soon had his motorcycle ready for this kind of pursuit. He followed Nightingale’s location until he reached the bus he rode, or one of three so far.

The suspect was sitting by a window, unaware of the biker following close. From the looks of the dark bags under his eyes, the beauty sleep had been effectively forgone. It struck the detective as odd to see Nightingale talking to himself at times, muttering and scowling in muted discussion. Which made his pursuer unsure if the troubled medium was taking his performance too seriously in every other aspect of his life, or if this was a case of hallucinations manifesting closely.

The detective would know a thing or two about being troubled enough to feel all sense of reality slip past his fingers. And those moments would make him wonder about the series of events that led to his new life, his past becoming each day distant and foreign.

The detective, known as Alvin Draper, had always kept an enigmatic air about him. There wasn’t much anyone knew about the young man, beyond some vague and at times fantastical stories in his informants’ grapevine. The rumor mill was full of ideas of his murky past, sharing how he once joined a martial arts Training Camp in his youth to hone new and dangerous skills; or how he had built quite the reputation abroad when he stole works of art. Those who knew of Draper heard how his absence after high school was related to a small rehabilitation phase, before he joined the Gotham City Police Department. While his life on paper had left quite an impression, Alvin Draper believed in second chances and was ready to turn over a new page.

Or at least that’s the story his creator had fabricated to find a vicarious redemption through a different name.

Behind Detective Alvin’s unique and absolutely fake life story, was none other than Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, former businessman, tech genius, and adoptive son of the one-and-only Bruce Wayne.

Tim, as he was more commonly known, had a brilliant mind, always keeping a sharp eye on the world around him. Until, one day, he failed to be more vigilant and cost a victim their life.

This, of course, had happened during one of his lesser-known activities and not while he was being the photogenic socialite, nor the admired young Co-CEO of Wayne Enterprises. The mishap had occurred while he wore a different mask, one donned for over a decade to protect the city of Gotham as Red Robin.

For Tim, being a vigilante had been a job that required precision and focus, aided by a sharp eye and attention to detail that allowed him to trace the connections even between the most impossible of cases. His strategic and analytical skills even allowed him to partake in different projects at the same time. That’s how he had taken on The End Of The World, as his multiple siblings had renamed the failed case.

Eight months before his motorcycle persecution, Tim had been looking into a group of cultists that had been operating in Gotham for some years. The Cult of Pariah, who worshipped the Ghost King, had established a failed ritual pattern, which led Tim to classify them as fake and not worthy of closer inspection. He would later come to regret this.

While Tim found out the cult would attempt another ritual to call upon their King in the next full moon, it also coincided with a hostage exchange between rival gangs at Robinson Park, which could spiral into a full war between the two groups if things went south.

While multiple cases called for multiple hands on deck, Tim was confident all the lines of investigation he had worked on the cult had shown they were never successful in their summoning attempts, considering as well how they only tried to offer their own souls for some their so-called King through a blood ritual that left no casualties.

Tim, very wrongly, assumed the cult investigation could wait.

He would later find out from one furious John Constantine and a disappointed Batman how badly he had “fucked up”.

While the lack of ghost magic had prevented the end of the world from actually happening, the life of the sacrificed victim was not one they could save.

Red Robin had failed his mission. Tim Drake had allowed his ego to get the best of him.

Tim’s confidence dwindled from there, overanalyzing the multiple ways he could have predicted the outcomes, the new modus operandi, the supernatural factors he still didn’t understand, all the signs and patterns that had been slightly skewed to the left, and a large etcetera that extended ad infinitum down through the rabbit hole he buried himself into. Anything that could have spared an innocent life.

His family and friends tried to assure Tim he had made the right call. They pointed out how he had followed his instincts and saved Gotham from having a gang war out in its streets. They also tried to find new ways to get him involved, asking for his “invaluable input”, showing their appreciation, and even inviting the young vigilante to hang out and get his mind off of things. But all efforts had been fruitless after the incident.

Tim became a stark shadow of his former self, until one day he decided to leave the group of vigilantes he called a family to find his own place in the world. Robin had always been something temporary anyway. He made a silent promise to work harder, to work better, and smarter, but he closed himself to the world and decided to find new ways to help.

One day, he found his answer when he stumbled upon a series of True Crime podcasts and videos, where he realized there were many cases in Gotham that remained unsolved. Pulling some of his remaining vigilante strings with the Commissioner, he was allowed to review some of the cold cases piling up at the GCPD. After all, he had promised Gordon he'd provide closure to these victims’ families.

His newfound purpose gave Tim plenty of ideas for new techniques and methods that could be applied in some of these cases, some that weren’t available or as efficient back when the investigation was still open. This would help him improve his skills. This would help him learn how to look for answers through a new perspective. And perhaps, even keep him from putting anyone else in danger by lowering the stakes.

As part of his cover and a way to keep his mind busy after the lack of board meetings or stuck-up galas, Tim decided to follow the example of his first source of inspiration. He decided to open a blog. A True Crime blog, to be precise, where he provided publicly available information about some of the cold cases he decided to work on, as a way to find new leads and potential informants.

Fast-forward to eight months after the incident that broke his spirit and nearly caused the End of the World, a message caught his attention:

NightCrimeShenanigans: Did you notice there’s a new murder that looks similar to the old Trophy Case case?

Using his renewed identity as Alvin Draper, which the vigilante had inserted as a valid detective active in the GCPD database, Tim sought the new victim’s information through the official police reports. It all pointed to a connection with the Trophy Case case, a case left unsolved ten years prior in which prize-winning alumni from Gotham University had been found posing with their awards for a picture, their pulse, smiles, and class rings absent. There had been no connections among the victims except for attending the university between 2004 and 2007.

There had not been any other known victims connected to the case in a decade, so this could point to a possible copycat, too.

As he asked his way through clues and leads, posing as Detective Alvin Draper, Tim found an intriguing detail to pursue his next piece in the puzzle: the latest victim had gone to a magic shop that for some reason had survived the diminishing ghost magic that affected all mediums and fortune-tellers across the city, legitimate and otherwise. A shop that was also the workplace of one very suspicious Daniel Jay Nightingale, who had such a clean record it made all the Bat-alarms in his head blare with reckless abandon.

As fate would have it, the series of events months in the making led to the current chase across Gotham, following the bus the medium was riding that early morning. After reaching a residential area far away from The Shadow Parlor, the list of Nightingale’s suspicious behaviors now included breaking and entering a basement. Tim would confirm in the small computer he passed as a phone that the property was in no way related to the medium, making Nightingale more likely to be an accomplice to murder or a copycat.

The suspect walked inside and Tim could hear the young man’s voice as he approached the stairs to the basement. The words had been concerning, mentioning a box full of surprises, lamenting someone’s death, and even asking in a nonplussed and casual way: “So, what’s your ‘True Crime’ story, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Having enough evidence to pin the blame on the medium, Tim stepped through the threshold to face the young man. The scene before him confused the renamed detective.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Tim exclaimed to get Nightingale’s attention, who froze up on the spot, staring at the detective with wide eyes.

Tim marked the behavior as additional evidence of his guilt. A part of him, however, tried to remind himself to act fast but not to jump to conclusions, lest he desired to leap before he thought.

Nightingale fearfully stared at the detective, then at the box in his hands, then at the jars on the shelves behind him, which made his already pale face blanch further as his eyes widened. “Oh, no. Nononono, this isn’t what it looks like!” he said quickly, starting to panic.

The nervous action led to a series of events none of the two men were prepared for. In his commotion, Nightingale backed away and stumbled against the shelf, which made him drop the box in his hands in surprise and scattered all its contents in the process, metallic sounds clinking on the cement floor. Rings, Tim realized.

Likes the ones that were missing from the Trophy Case case victims’ belongings.

Thankful that he was still wearing his gloves, Tim picked up one of the rings and turned it over in his hand, noticing the engravings of the Gotham University logo as well as a very familiar year: 2004. A year he had seen on several documents about the case.

It didn’t make sense. Nightingale was too young to have committed any of the previous murders. Or was he? In any case, the detective had to accept this wouldn’t be a normal investigation, and thus he would have to keep his mind open for other more impossible explanations.

Tim’s cold blue eyes moved to glare at the nervous man in front of him. “So, it doesn’t look like you were holding damning evidence that connects you to a serial killer?” the detective asked with a sharp tone.

Nightingale turned to face something next to him, muttering under his breath until his words became louder. “Well, why didn’t you—You know what? Fine!” He then said something unintelligible, though it sounded like he was scolding someone who wasn’t really there.

Or so Tim believed.

“Drop the act, Nightingale,” the detective said sternly, his eyes scanning for any signs of a weapon or any other kind of danger. “Better start explaining. Now.”

With one last curse under his breath, Nightingale kept a weary look on Tim. “This is going to sound so weird, but—” he paused, as if mentally dissecting his next words, although his body language revealed his intention to lie his way out of it. “I just… followed a hunch.”

The reply didn’t fit whatever Tim thought the medium would try to use as an excuse. It made him wonder why Nightingale wasn’t trying to blame ghosts for this, after the ominous claim that they had been following the detective. Something that had to be entirely impossible, if Constantine’s scolding had taught him anything.

“A hunch,” Tim repeated dryly.

He received a firm nod in reply. “Yeah,” came Nightingale’s not-so-firm voice. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but… there was this mark on a map that told me to come here and I just followed the vibes.”

Tim’s patience was wearing thin, but he knew he couldn’t exactly arrest the man in front of him. While his Draper alias was an official part of the GCPD (according to their system at least), he didn’t want to risk being recognized by anyone. He would have to find another way to turn him in if he got a confession.

“I know you’re not telling the truth. Your face is an open book, Nightingale.”

The medium scrunched up his nose. “Dude, how did you even know my last name before we met?”

“I know how to do my job, even if you think you can give me pointers,” Tim answered darkly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Fess up, Daniel.”

“It’s Danny,” Nightingale drawled in response.

The detective just raised an unimpressed eyebrow and kept his expectant stare trained on the suspect.

With a tired sigh and a glare, Danny tried to mimic Tim’s posture, which came off as guarded. “A spirit told me,” he mumbled after a moment.

The impossible answer showed no hints of falsehood, of lying through his teeth. If anything, Nightingale seemed reluctant to provide said explanation. This had to be nonsense. It couldn’t be an exception to the dwindling ghost magic in the world. He asked whatever higher powers out there, if there were any left, to give him enough patience as he humored the suspect.

“Fine, I’ll bite,” Tim replied with condescension, rolling his eyes. “What did this spirit tell you, then?”

Danny scowled and averted his gaze. “What’s the point of telling you the truth when you won’t even believe it?”

There was something almost forlorn about his look, a bitterness in his tone, and an anger that seeped through the suspect’s shoulders. This was caution; self-preservation. Just as guarded as before. If the medium was guilty of anything, this picture didn’t scream murder.

Tim had known this was going to lead to more impossible answers, so he might as well get some evidence of what leaned more towards reality. “Just try to explain. We’ll see where to go from there,” Tim replied as the tiredness colored his words.

The two stood in tense silence, Nightingale’s gaze shifting to see the rings on the floor and something on the walls around them, until he dropped his shoulders in resignation.

“Look, I really like my job and my life here,” Daniel croaked, voice almost a whisper. “I don’t want to have to start all over again elsewhere, okay?”

Tim perked at the admission that would sure be important to follow through. He tried to latch on any hint he could get, memorizing gestures, words, slang in particular, and even accents he could pick out to gather as much information as he could from the suspicious medium. Information that wouldn’t be found on any paper trail.

The detective had figured Nightingale had just gotten “installed” into the Gotham matrix, so to speak. A new player from whatever other city (or town) he was from. While he was the prime suspect in this particular murder, Tim knew just from that background alone there were things that wouldn’t fit with the rest of the victims, such as Danny’s age or his time in Gotham.

If Danny had a fresh start when he arrived in the city, what had gone rotten in his previous life to seek refuge in a seemingly hopeless city?

“If you’re really innocent, then it’s just a matter of telling the truth,” Tim said, paying close attention to Danny’s reactions. “I have no reason to ruin your life. And I can understand the need for a new change of pace. A second chance.”

After a moment of consideration, Nightingale took a deep breath he released slowly. “My job isn’t as bullshit as it looks,” he spoke in a more subdued tone, his words filled with truth. “I can see…something. I can’t tell you everything. But, they’re out there, wandering, waiting…”

Something in Tim’s chest constricted. The reminder of vital information that would have made this claim impossible. He knew he shouldn’t believe this. If he did, it would have made his mistakes much worse. “How? Talking to ghosts is a lost practice. No one can do it in this city anymore.” Or anywhere on Earth, according to Constantine.

Danny stared at him confused. “Lost practice? What are you talking about?”

Tim had to think about how to phrase this right, never one to give away what he could use to his advantage later. “I meant that magic through ghosts has been out of business for quite a few months. All that’s left are fake mediums trying and failing to convince people of their skills. There used to be good ones out there, some even helped the GCPD from time to time.” Or so the records said.

The records didn’t say the mediums had helped the Bats.

Or that it had only been two mediums at most.

Or that while they didn’t consider themselves as mediums, Zatanna’s and Constantine’s help had always been valuable in cases bordering on the occult.

Would he have to tell them about this case as well?

Danny’s intense blue eyes studied Tim, the attention making the detective almost uncomfortable. A creepy vibe, if he had to phrase it somehow, no matter how his belief in vibes had never been high. The non-committal shrug from Danny eased some of the vibe a moment later. “Part of me almost doesn’t care if you believe me or not, but I also don’t want to become a suspect for something I didn’t do. Like, wouldn’t that hurt the victims in the end? You’d be wasting time looking in the wrong direction.”

Tim’s wariness hadn’t left completely, but he had to admit this was some solid reasoning he could get behind and understand. But if this was the truth, that left the path open for the things that weren’t rooted in human logic and science. To darker topics he had no real expertise about and would require stepping away, alerting someone more knowledgeable before he put someone else in danger.

He decided to start with the main question. “If you want to help, you can start by explaining how you can see ghosts when no one has been able to do it in months?”

Nightingale turned to look at the scattered rings on the floor. “I don’t know how to explain it,”—another evident lie,—“but it’s not really summoning or whatever you’ve heard of the séances. The spirits just… appear.” He then gestured at the empty space next to him.

Tim tried to will the spirit into visibility by the sheer force of his look of concentration. Which led him nowhere, of course. There were no hints of a presence through sound or sight, no signs of the temperature dropping, or any sensation in his hand when he moved it near the place Danny was looking at.

“Okay, then how does the communication work, then? Once they appear, I mean. Do they talk to you? Ouija boards? Ghost whispering? Charades?” The detective prompted, dismissing the look of surprise and the muttered ‘damn, so accurate’ next to him.

Danny shook his head and smiled. “Sure, let’s talk here, while we wait for the real killer to return home. Would you like me to check if they have some coffee up in the kitchen?”

Tim was so not ready for this level of sass this early in the day. “Alright, I came looking for evidence anyway, not for the medium world-building,” he muttered as he walked into the room, staring at the rings scattered on the floor. He turned to look at Danny who was giving him a quizzical look. “What?”

“So you believe me? Just like that?” Nightingale asked with a perplexed tone that matched the look on his face.

Tim rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t just like that. You have an alibi at least for a dozen of the murders I’m looking into.” He also had reason to believe he would need to consult someone else about the ghost part just to be totally sure he didn’t mess up, again.

Danny stared at the rings, his eyes seizing the amount scattered on the floor. “Damn, that many, huh?” He stared at the empty space next to him and seemed confused by something else. “Uh, Detective Theodore?”

Tim sighed. “It’s Alvin. Detective Alvin Draper,” he replied with a dry tone.

Nightingale mumbled a reply and gave Tim a worried look. “Right, Detective Whatever… I think I should probably share something really important about how I can contact spirits. Before you take it away?”

The uncertainty in the voice was a different shade from the previous interjections, making Tim turn to face his informant-slash-suspect. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Danny licked his lips. “I can only see weird shadows, but when I touch something important to them, I can see them, so…” His eyes lingered on the rings.

The hairs on Tim’s neck stood on end. He was probably just falling for the suggestion. “What, are we now surrounded by everyone who had a ring?”

Danny shifted nervously, the air around them growing tense, the “weird vibes” from before growing in intensity. So maybe there was something in the air the detective could detect.

The medium made a so-so motion with his so-so nervous hands. “Uh, something like that. We might have company coming. The living kind. And they want to make sure we don’t screw this case up since it doesn’t look like you have a search warrant, so…” Tim tried not to cringe at the new blunder that could have made his case crumble, his tension gone unnoticed by Nightingale who continued to look around. “Got any extra gloves to pick these up quickly and get the hell out of here?”

Tim’s tension morphed into a stare filled with disbelief. “You were just holding them in your gloveless hands a moment ago.”

Danny’s eyes moved from side to side, probably preparing a lie, if Tim had started to read the man’s gestures right. “I used the wax of a spare duck candle? We got tons at the shop.” A fact that was true even if the story wasn’t. The medium’s gaze turned to the ground to avoid more scrutiny. “My hands got sweaty, and the wax melted from my fingers, but you won’t find a single print, I swear.”

With Danny not revealing the truth of how he had succeeded in touching possible evidence without leaving a trace, Tim tried to hide his growing suspicion. There was something not quite fitting in the picture but also not quite adding any evidence to Danny’s involvement in this case, so Tim would need to look into afterwards.

Sensing he wouldn’t get a straight answer, the detective handed the medium a pair of black latex gloves from a pocket in his coat. “Fine, put them in the box. Don’t mess with any other evidence.”

The two men worked in silence, looking under the shelf and the desk for any stray ring to include in the box. Tim began to believe more about the medium’s claims when he noticed the man mumbling and saying thanks after he turned to pick a ring that wasn’t in his line of sight.

It also struck Tim as odd that Nightingale squinted every now and then, as if his eyes were being affected by something. When Danny noticed the man’s look on him, he shrugged. “Let’s say things get flashy when I pick things like these,” he said with more squints.

Tim made another mental note to the list of things to add to his questioning. He was still not entirely sure about how this connected to any form of ghost magic, unless there were other alternative ways to reach ghosts that Constantine hadn’t revealed before. Or had there been a return to the usual spiritual connections in the world he hadn’t learned about?

Tim’s heart clenched with nostalgia as he reminded himself how he needed to be in a better headspace to go back to face his family.

Once they were set and all the rings had been collected in a way almost reminiscent of a feral hedgehog, the two men went to the detective’s motorcycle and headed anywhere but the invaded residence. A part of Tim still questioned allowing his new informant-slash-past suspect to ride along, but his need for answers weighed more.

“I hope the ghosts know how to fly fast enough,” Tim muttered before he put the helmet on.

That seemed to amuse Danny. “You could say that.”

Tim had known a diner where they would be left alone enough to talk about the strange situation, closer to Old Gotham. It was still early enough to have people eating breakfast but deserted enough to give them privacy in a far-away booth. He learned of this place from his family. These seats had witnessed perhaps too many conversations with friendly rogues and conflicted heroes alike.

The people running the place would always give them privacy, never even hinting at the vigilantes’ recurring visits but there was always a look of recognition, certain tells in the way they prepared their meals or served their coffee.

Danny seemed weary about an invisible danger. Perhaps there was one, Tim still didn’t know how his abilities worked. What he did know was that the medium had insisted on keeping the rings at least close to keep his connection active with the ghosts around them.

At first, Nightingale seemed distracted but replied to basic questions about what he had found out previously to reach that basement (not much) and what he knew about the Trophy Case case (nothing at all). But after a few minutes into the conversation, he looked extremely irritated, until he suddenly closed his eyes and seemed about to burst.

“Enough!” he shouted at no one in particular, making everyone at the diner quieten their chatter, turn, and stare with disproval at the display.

Tim wondered if it was too much to ask for this case to be easy to solve while keeping a low profile.

"Nightin—Danny,” Tim scolded in a lower voice. “Can you please not draw everyone’s attention while we’re having what sounds like crazy talk?”

Danny huffed and scowled. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a bit hard. Do you know just how many ghosts are around us? It’s getting kinda—guys,” Danny suddenly interrupted himself, reinforcing his glare to the unsuspecting empty space next to Tim’s side of the booth. “I can’t even listen to my own thoughts, would you mind?” At least his exasperation had lowered in decibels.

The detective could only hear the deafening silence around them as the diner resumed their previous chatter volume. He cleared his throat, something his second cup of coffee should have already done.

“Okay, why don’t you just tell them to take turns or something,” Tim said as a way to solve the current issue. He pulled out a tablet from his messenger bag and browsed through it. “I have my case files with me, so I can cross-reference with previous victims, check if they’re all accounted for or confirm the timeline.”

Danny turned to look at a large space around them. Tim had counted at least twelve rings in the box. Were there as many victims really around? He figured he could ask Danny some trick questions to verify his claims, starting with fake information or perhaps things that happened ten years ago, a timeframe that wouldn’t make sense for the medium to be involved in.

"Sure, it’s your funeral, I guess,” Nightingale muttered as he sunk in his seat.

“Why don’t I ask you about a couple of victims to start?” Tim continued. “Is… Nicole Pond here? She used to be a Literature graduate who—”

Danny snorted. “She’s here. She was a Psychology graduate,” the medium paused to listen to something or someone to his left before his grin grew wide and mischievous. “She also says that if that’s the quality of info the GCPD could gather about the case, it’s no wonder you haven’t caught the murderer.”

Tim was surprised by the accuracy of the information. Nicole Pond was the first victim and would probably know more about the case than anyone else.

Danny nodded sagely, his mood already improving from the previous outburst, and turned to the detective again. “Oh, she also says to please call her Nikki. She’s not fond of Nicole.”

Tim sighed. “Sorry, Nikki.” He looked awkwardly in the direction Danny was turning to talk to the ghost of said victim, the unusualness of the situation finally hitting the detective like Bane on a bad day. “Do you mind if I confirm a couple of other victims, just to make sure it’s the same case?”

“Sure,” Danny said as he drank his coffee. “Ask away. They’re… calmer, now. Thankful that you’re looking into it.” He paused for a moment and rolled his eyes. “Even Nikki says it’s better than the other guys who didn’t care to look more into the case.”

Tim didn’t know how to reply to that, the memory of his past mistakes weighed heavy in his chest. “It’s what I do,” he said softly. “So, uh, there was also—”

“Hold on,” Danny interrupted again. “Some of them already looked over your shoulder and say you’re reading all the information wrong. That you’re testing me.”

Tim wondered, not for the first time, if the medium was in reality a mind-reading meta.

“And no, I can’t read minds,” Danny said as his look turned into an utterly unimpressed expression. “Anyway, is that proof enough for you? I just wanted to help my customer, who directed me to that place. And pointed out the basement. And the rings. And… teeth.”

Tim stared trying to make sense of the situation.

Because this would confirm Daniel Nightingale still had some kind of connection to ghost magic or the ghost realm. It would mean Constantine could be wrong about other things as well. And it would lessen the guilt eating away in Tim’s chest, knowing he could find a way to give closure to the people everyone had failed to save before.

Tim looked at his tablet and switched to a note-taking application. His eyes turned with more determination to look at his new informant-slash-potential-ally. “All right, tell me everything that happened.”

And so, Danny told him everything that happened.

It took them the next few hours, filled with large amounts of caffeine and grizzly details of all the victims. More than Tim ever thought he would have to listen to. Before long, the medium had to retreat to The Cauldron, specifically to The Shadow Parlor, where the detective would no doubt go looking for more answers in the near future.

Tim hadn’t pictured himself going into the magic shop so soon. Yet, the intel he had been gifted by Nightingale led to the capture of the Trophy Case Murderer a few days after their disconcerting diner discussion. Therefore, he found himself compelled to share his findings with the medium.

The store was as empty as he remembered the last time, with none of the advertised séances or tarot readings taking place at the moment. He opened the door softly, careful not to make the bell announce his arrival. Despite the caution, the medium’s eyes zeroed on him immediately from behind a bookshelf.

“Oh, Detective Simon,” Danny said, making the detective question once more why he had chosen his current alias in the first place.

“At least we have no more chipmunks left for you to troll me,” Tim begrudgingly retorted. A part of him wanted to share his real name with the medium. To Danny. An olive branch after all the help he provided to solve the decade-old case. But Tim knew there were better ways to work together. In fact, he knew he had to keep an eye on the guy who for some reason had kept a connection to the ghostly realm.

An unexplained connection he was eager to get explained.

“What brings you here? Missed indirectly talking to your case’s ghosts on your way to the murderer’s house?” Danny sassed with a wary smile as he walked to the shop’s entrance.

“I came to share the news,” Tim said, pulling out a note from The Gotham Gazette on his phone, showing a headline that read “Trophy Case Serial Killer Caught a Decade Later” and detailing in the blurb how the Trophy Case case had been closed thirteen years after the first murders.

The full note Tim had already read went on to show one Michael Pattison as the culprit, the connections between the victims finally revealed by an anonymous source to the Gotham City Police Department, which Danny would believe to be himself and not the fake detective he worked with. Michael had attended a summer camp for future leaders with all victims during high school. However, out of all of the companions in his age group, he was the only one to not reach the fame and glory others received as they pursued their careers, all of which turned out to lead to Gotham University. A university that didn’t accept Michael’s application.

Bitter, resentful, Michael sought to wipe the smile out of their victims’ faces and collect their class rings as a reminder. Of course, the news reports would leave any gruesome details out of the picture.

“All your info checked out,” Tim continued, putting his phone back into his pocket. “Your name was not connected in any way to the case, though. I figured you didn’t like the spotlight, since you’re totally hiding under a new name and you probably haven’t disclosed it to anyone.”

The look of horror on Danny’s face was enough to confirm Tim’s suspicions. “How the hell do you know that?” he asked with barely a whisper.

The smug smile on the detective’s face was only the beginning of the larger plan he was about to reveal to his ally-slash-partner. “You did say you didn’t want to change cities and start all over again. Seemed like the most logical explanation.”

Danny closed his eyes in defeat, groaning and cursing under his breath. Something Tim knew would help him in his endeavor to have a more consistent partnership with Nightingale.

The medium walked to the register, letting his head hang as he used the counter for support. “Fuck, I really messed that up, didn’t I?” His terrified blue eyes turned to look at Tim. “Are you going to tell anyone? About me?”

Tim had already considered his options days before and even during sleepless nights. As he confirmed each and every one of Nightingale’s claims. As he thought of the cases even he hadn’t been able to solve. As he wondered about every possibility to continue with this collaboration with someone who could become a case on his own, each mystery behind Daniel Jay Nightingale more intriguing as he discovered more clues along the way.

And it wouldn’t hurt to have the closest thing to an occult expert without getting near his former colleagues. Without disappointing John Constantine one more time, even if the Brit might not know how Nightingale was able to harness a connection that had been once lost with the spirit world.

Tim’s smile became more sincere as the words came out. “We could work something out. Maybe consulting you about other victims wouldn’t be so bad.”

Danny eyed him suspiciously under his dark bangs. “Are you serious?” Tim’s smile grew in confidence, making the medium’s brow furrow. “But why?”

The detective walked closer and leaned against the counter. “I’ve got a box full of unsolved cases I’m trying to crack. If we work together, think of the closure and peace we could give so many families.”

Danny stared in disbelief at the detective, eyes narrowing with a hint of betrayal. “I’m being blackmailed, here, aren’t I?” Danny asked dryly.

Tim’s smile didn’t falter. “I was going to call it a partnership, but whatever works for you.”