2014.04.05 - The Court of Owls: The Plot Thickens

Edward Nygma's interviews with the McHeigh hotel staff go as well as one could expect; the staff are paid not to pay attention to who comes and goes through the area's esteemed halls. There are security cameras in place, but -- perhaps quite suspiciously -- those cameras were in the process of being upgraded when the crime took place, leaving no record of suspicious figures coming in or out of the hotel's doors.
Then there's the matter of the McHeigh scion -- Johnathan McHeigh. Only 13 years old, he's lost both of his parents; he is now currently stashed away at his uncle's ranch home on the outskirts of Gotham, under close surveillance by both his uncle and the boy's therapist, Cyrus Riddle. Managing to fast-talk his way into the ranch (with a little help from the GCPD; they've been surprisingly helpful, on this investigation), Nygma is granted an opportunity to interview the staff... though Cyrus (a rather weaselly looking man, scrawny and with perhaps a bit of a 'Johnathan Crane' look to him) insists that the boy is in too troubled of a state to be interviewed directly.
Not that this is going to stop Nygma. Slipping away from some of the staff, he manages to find the boy in the stables -- all by his lonesome, grooming one of the horses. Johnathan McHeigh is a handsome young lad; dark haired, dark eyed, fair skin -- there's a strange sort of seriousness about him, though. Perhaps it's the fact that his parents have just recently been murdered -- but there is a somberness that hangs around him like an impermeable cloud. He is grooming a midnight black mare when Nygma steps in, the brush held tight in his hands -- dressed sharply in a rider's garb, complete with helmet.
Edward Nygma is not here to dilly-dally about. There are answers here; even if they are not answers he needs, they can at least eliminate answers and paths so he doesn't have to waste time on them. Expecting the dead ends at the hotel and the stonewalling at the manor, he heads out as if defeated -- before slipping around back and finding the boy, predictably, with the comfort of something he can control: an animal. A grieving boy needs companionship that doesn't ask questions, doesn't give him lies or torment. He needs what the horses can give him. 
"Pardon me," he said. "I'm Edward Nygma." The boy was of an age where Edward had been a criminal as long as he'd been alive; unless he was extremely sheltered, he'd have some idea who he was. "She's a lovely beast, your mare. What's her lines?" Rapport conversation in this was important. Kids needed to feel safe, trusted, and most importantly: ike their contributions are valid and have meaning. He's pretty Dr. Riddle's job description does not include actually helping Johnathan with anything of the sort. (He hates that man just for having that name)
Johnathan pauses at the sight of Nygma, rising up from where he was grooming the horse's back. His eyebrows immediately pinch together, a wrinkle forming between them as he watches the man... very intently. He holds the brush in front of him, as if brandishing it against Nymga; he also places himself between the man and the horse. "You're on the news," he says, very carefully. But at the comments regarding the horse, the boy visibly relaxes -- the brush lowers. Just a smidge. "Wait, come, walk, trot," his eyes drift over to the mare, who whickers. "--fly. For when I want her to go very fast." He adds this last bit quietly, as if it was a secret.
Leaning casually in the doorway, Edward affected calm. So far, so good. A hint of trust, a hint of empathy. He really did feel for the kid... he wondered if he was another Bruce Wayne in the making. He wondered why the thought make his blood turn to water. Bruce Wayne was a nice man, by any account, but there was something... he couldn't remember.
"Guys like me, we settle for fast car," Edward said with a wry smile. "She got a name?"
There is something about this boy -- something in his eyes, maybe? An intensity, quiet and burning. A fire, but one that gives off no heat; cold. But the way he holds that brush no longer brings to mind someone about to fend off an attacker, at least. "Athena," the boy replies, to the question -- only to immediately add: "Does Dr. Riddle know you're here? I'm not supposed to speak to anyone without Dr. Riddle." The emphasis on the 'suppose' seems to indicate that the boy's not entirely above breaking this rule.
"Oh? Did you name her? She's one of my favorite Gods, actually," Edward said, eyes ducking slightly, before he brought them up again. "She was a protector of cities; Athens was named for her. Truth, justice, moral value -- she waged war only for justice, as opposed to Ares who did so for love of carnage. Owls were sacred to her." 
Edward does not believe in coincidence.
"No. Dr. Riddle doesn't think you're ready to speak to anyone yet," he admitted. "I don't know that he's correct, however. You have been throuh something terrible... but I believe you're stronger than they may realize." But cold. Strangely, unsettlingly cold.
"--no, I didn't. Dr. Riddle brought her to me," the boy responds. "He said that it would be an important part to my healing process." Johnathan's eyes drift back to Athena; the horse whickers, only slightly. The brush descends again, stroking across her hide. "I am very strong," the boy agrees with Nygma, only to add: "Dr. Riddle and the others tell me I will be the strongest yet."
And with that, Riddle goes on the Owl list in Edward's head. 
"Never had any pets myself. Never-- actually been this close to a horse, either." He gives a little bit of a chuckle, before he approaches, hesitant. "...is it safe? Could I touch her?" 
The wonder wasn't faked; he always wanted new experience, new knowledge. But it was a little enhanced for the boy's sake. Got to maintain that rapport. 
"Strongest McHeigh yet?" he asks. "That's quite a weight." And he's not sure that's what Riddle means.
"Yes," the boy informs Nygma, with just a hint of pride touching into that voice, puffing it up. "She's safe. She is very well trained. You may pet her, if you would like."
At the next comment -- regarding the strongest McHeigh, the boy pauses, regarding Nygma with just a hint of confusion -- before responding, his eyebrows squeezing together. "Not the strongest McHeigh, sir. The strongest--"
"Mr. Nygma." Cyrus' wheedly voice slips through the room like a straight razor through silk. "You seem to have gotten yourself lost. Johnathan," and here, Cyrus' tone takes on a softer, more gentle tone, "would you please come here?" The scrawny, scrappy man -- in his 40s, balding, dressed sharply in a suit and tie -- stands at the stables' entrance. He adjusts his large, coke-bottle spectacles as he regards the scene before him.
The brief puzzlement on Johnathan's features fades at the sound of Cyrus' voice; something more -- blank-eyed seems to settle across him. His grip slackens on the brush, he nods his head quietly, politely -- obediently! -- moving to stand besides Dr. Riddle.
Stroking the mare's side, Edward didn't startle. The discovery was inevitable when they noticed his car wasn't gone, and Johnathan was a precious commodity. He stroked the horse still, before he moved away from her-- briefly putting his hands in his pockets briefly. 
"I just couldn't help myself," Edward said, reaching up with one hand to tip his hat. /You caught me, points to you, good sir-- just know that I let you,/ he doesn't say. He just smiles, walking back after Johnathan. "He's a good young man, Dr. Riddle. I'll see myself out now." And covertly slip his card into Athena's tack as he he pauses to turn. "Young Master McHeigh-- make her fly for me? Never have gotten to do that..."
"Mmmn." Cyrus' response is... little more than an even-eyed stare at Nygma as he moves toward the exit. His hand has dropped down to Johnathan's shoulder; the boy's blank-faced look continues -- even as Nygma mentions 'making Athena fly'.
"...goodbye, Mr. Nygma," Cyrus speaks just as Edward reaches the exit -- those beady little eyes of his flicking toward him. Did he see Edward palming the card into Athena's tack...? He doesn't seem to indicate it. Johnathan's own eyes are still locked on the horse as Edward leaves.
Giving the jauntiest of waves, Edward went his way. He started to whistle a merry tune as he headed to the car. Yes, it was true, as they said:
The game was, indeed, afoot.
Category:Log