Upon returning to the Batcave, Bruce removed his cowl and set it aside, along with his gloves. Carefully, he removed the plastic vial he'd taken from the scene at the Harbor, and strode toward the computer terminals, scanning the control panels briefly.
The computers had taken a heavy hit during the Riddler's Halloween assault, and though the main chemical analyzer had yet to be replaced, there was a smaller, older unit that Bruce still had at his disposal. True, it wouldn't give him the complete chemical breakdown that he needed, but it would serve as a jumping-off point for his investigations until Wayne Enterprises' scientific division opened, and he could find a way to pawn the sample off on another employee for analysis.
Settling the skin sample he had taken into one of the slots on the chemical centrifuge, Bruce sat back in a chair, folded his arms, and waited. And thought about the facts.
One body. No witnesses so far. No evidence of suicide - a poisoning like his would be an unlikely method, no matter what it turns out to be. And there was that abrasion on his arm ... Bruce squinted, recalling the shape of the shallow wound he'd seen on the late doctor's forearm. Had it been from a scrape in the water, or a collision, there would be evidence of it on his clothes... however, he'd been in too much of hurry to collect his skin sample to worry about details.
Wait, hold it, Bruce thought to himself. Something about his own train of thought seemed to be waving a little flag at him, something he couldn't put his finger on. He'd have to let Batman tip Gordon off about the possible struggle signs, let him and his squad check the body. Until then, he'd have to live with that nagging little itch that he knew would persist until he'd answered his own questions.
The centrifuge beeped, and Bruce leaned forward in his chair, reaching for the spare pair of reading glasses he kept near the keyboard. Momentarily, his mental snapshot of himself made him chuckle. Batman in glasses... Harvey Bullock would have a field day over that, I'm sure. However, his chuckle was truncated as even the rudimentary results of his scan came up loud and clear.
"Black nightshade," Bruce whispered, running the tip of his tongue thoughtfully along one corner of his mouth. "Well, Dr. Woodrue. ... That's certainly not going to be anywhere in Gotham Harbor."