January 1.
Arkham Asylum.
The Riddler's Journal January 1st
I'm honestly surprised Dr. Nybakken's seen fit to give me writing utensils. He's unlike the other doctors here. He seems to have our welfare at the top of his priorities. He was always the smart one.
It's going to be a sad day when he dies.
Pondering, as I'm oft to do…
What time is it when an elephant sits on a fence…?
A riddle. An enigma wrapped inside a clue, trussed up in a Chinese Box.
No clear answer. Like so many other things in this world, no clear answer.
They would have us stay here for eternity if they had their way—and they certainly do. With their money and their riches, Gotham's elite keep us shackled behind tempered glass doors and steel bars, hoping drab clothing and terrible food will rehabilitate us.
When they lie through their teeth to us. One would think they don't know us anymore. We invented trickery—we're its masters—and we know when it's being used against us.
They don't want to help us. Not Mayor Hill, not Gordon…least of all, Wayne. Their favorite son. With all his riches and his opportunity, he refuses to actually help us.
Maybe I've been listening to the Joker for too long. He's becoming socialistic. He's been interned here for the longest ever: 3 months. In that time, Nybakken's allowed him access to the library in the basement, and he's taken a liking to Engels and Marx.
Idiot.
I would've figured him for an anarchist. Destroy first, ask questions later. Then again I've been wrong before; I would've figured Dent for an emotional cretin and Isley for a moron. Underestimating them. Overestimating myself.
A common trait of mine.
But Joker…he's actually displaying cognitive function, remarkable beast that he is. He's been trying to foment an uprising among the inmates for some time under an umbrella reason he won't divulge. I don't think he quite understands what he's getting into.
I don't quite think he understands why we're agreeing to it.
On Washington's Birthday, we're going to blow the doors of this prison wide open. Pamela will lead the crazies off the island. The bridges on all three sides of the island will blow, courtesy of explosives the Joker planted years ago. Crane will use the D'Angelo plant to disperse his toxins. They'll keep out…everyone we don't want.
And Dent…hasn't said what he's doing yet.
Me, I've got a different problem.
I've got a Batman to vex.
January 3.
Harvey Dent, in therapy
"We've tried altering probability, Harvey."
"Failed," he says.
"With varying success." Nybakken's correction rings insulting in Dent's ear. A shade childish.
You know, Harvey, she used to put you down like that, too.
Who?
Gilda.
Shut up.
"You rejected the dice, even the Yahtzee set. We're trying to increase probability here, Harvey. Life needn't be as complicated a good heads or bad heads. That's why we tried the dominoes, remember?"
"You can't alter reality, Doc," Dent insists. "Not mine."
Nybakken reclines in the chair and taps his pen on his clipboard. One of Dent's hands tightens into a fist. Nybakken's eyes narrow and he keeps at it. Three minutes pass. Dent's other hand taps the armrest nervously.
"Harvey?"
"Doc," he murmurs. "Would you…stop?"
Nybakken obliges. "You're getting better." And stands. "Whether you know it or not, whether you want to admit it or not."
"A cause, Doc?"
"Hard to tell," Nybakken says and removes his glasses. As he polishes them with a corner of his lab jacket, he speaks. "Maybe Harvey Dent is finally reasserting himself. Maybe you're tired of Two-Face. It's not entirely uncommon. Alternate personalities often come to the fore after periods of extended intense suppression. In your case, after so many years of dealing with Two-Face, Harvey Dent is finally reasserting himself, as incredible as that sounds."
"But?" Dent strokes one half of his chin—the human half—thoughtfully.
Nybakken gives a minor smile. "The only thing that's keeping Harvey Dent from a full recovery is the, ah…well, the physical evidence."
"It's not an accident," Dent says, almost growling. "A dead man hurled acid in my face. Intentionally. That supposed to sit well with me?"
"I understand that," Nybakken sympathized. "I'm only saying. You could be whole again. You needn't be so divided. Medical advances being what they are—"
"Stop," Dent said and ran a hand over what was left of his face. "Just…let it go, Doc."
"I understand," Nybakken says and pats Dent on the shoulder. "We'll continue this Friday. In the meantime, get some rest. You owe it to yourself."
Nybakken leaves.
Leaves Dent to his thoughts.
He's wrong. And you're a fool for believing him.
He's always wrong, as you've always said. You're as susceptible as I am. And you need new material.
Not even close, Harvey. I'm stronger. Or have you forgotten why I came around in the first place?
…No.
No, and you won't. Your little inferiority complex is responsible for everything. I made you stronger, and where would you be without me?
In the DA's office.
You'd be dead. End of story.
February 1.
The Batcave.
Underneath stately Wayne Manor.
"You keep looking over those images; you're going to get a migraine."
"Already there." His jaw almost doesn't move. Of course, when he's got the cowl on, it's hard to tell what he's doing. I can't even see his eyes for Pete's sake. "And repetition reinforces knowledge, Tim."
"Now you sound like my old headmaster," I say and rub my chin, faking thoughtfulness. "Seriously, though." I sit on the armrest of his chair and join him staring. "What are you looking for? Magic bullet? I know a guy in Hub City who could fix you up."
For the past hour and a half, Bruce has been staring at footage taken from a security camera at Jenkins Jewelers. It shows so clearly the Penguin strolling into the place, twirling his umbrella and enjoying a spot o' tea while his linebacker henchfolk crack wise with the safe.
"It doesn't make sense," Bruce says, as he has for the past 90 minutes.
"Sure it does. Oswald's out of tea money; he wants more."
"The hired help," he says thickly.
Silence. He's waiting for me to answer. I think…
"He's ripped off four banks in the Diamond District in the past month alone," Bruce answers his own question. As he does he reclines in the chair. I stand and start pacing. "Maybe he really is strapped for cash."
"Maybe he's getting smarter," I interject. "But where's the mystery there?"
"The henchmen don't have his particular motif, Tim. Look at them. Black turtlenecks, domino masks. And they all look like football players."
"Since when did physiology determine employment?"
"Bottom line, these aren't his men."
My brow furrows. I look at Bruce, at the display on the screen, and back at Bruce.
"Whose are they?"
Blackgate Penitentiary.
Commissioner James Gordon.
I usually don't do this. I usually leave things like this to Bullock or better, Montoya. They at least have a mind for interrogations. Me, I've got a different problem. I've been behind a desk for too damn long. Whatever skills I had at getting people to talk went out the window when I took over this job from a corrupt bureaucrat.
I'm a police commissioner. Not one of those bad cops. Not Flass, not Branden.
I'm also not Harvey Bullock.
"Jim?"
I turn around and see Montoya standing a few feet away from me. She's in full riot gear—strictly precaution, and an idea Arkham should adopt—and her hair sticks out, messy, from the edges of the helmet and the upturned Plexiglas.
"Is he ready in there?"
"Even if he's not, you're going in." We both smile and start walking don the hall. The interrogation room is only known here by a single grey door hiding a small grey room with a chair and a table.
And sitting at that table, in standard issue prison grays: Oswald Cobblepot.
I let Renee go in first—she picks a spot at the back of the room—and I close the door behind me. I start talking as I sit. And Cobblepot's locked a dead and hateful stare on me.
"So what was it, Oswald? What's so important that they had to call me down from Central to do this?"
"Verily," he says and cocks his head. "Your talent could be put to better use elsewhere, my fine friend. Why waste your time on me, a mere stoolpigeon?"
"If you're such a stoolpigeon, then maybe you'll tell me what I want to know, and I won't have to get difficult. Sound good to you?"
"You hardly frighten me, James. Try your routine elsewhere."
"Renee," I say and look past Cobblepot. Renee's already got her nightstick locked in one hand. A moment later, she's holding it around his neck in a minor choke.
"Now," I say quietly. "I'm no killer, so you get to live. But I am a damn good cop. And if you won't give me what I want I'll extract it from you forcefully. Or she will."
"Bosh," he croaks. "Flimshaw. What would the liberties union say?"
"You're a convicted felon," I fire back. "Hardly a poster child. So tell me, Oswald. You stick to banks now or is this just a stepping stone? You don't even use you own men to do it."
"I hope for your sake, there's a point to this."
Renee tightens her grip.
"I want to know," I grit. "Whose men they were. They're not talking—we've had them under the gun for the last few hours. I want to know what you know, Oswald."
"You…you won't find me the talkative sort."
Before I get a word in, a deeper voice speaks from behind me.
"You'll speak to me."
I turn around in the chair and Batman steps out of the shadows, doing spooky—as he usually does. I stand and straighten my jacket. Motion to Renee to let up her chokehold on Cobblepot.
"You…" I give Batman a quizzical look. "Never mind." Of course he can handle it. He can always handle it.
Renee pats my shoulder. As we leave, Batman shuts the door behind us. Halfway down the hall, I pull out my cellular and punch in a sequence of numbers.
"Good evening, City Hall."
I hesitate for a moment. "Uh, Mayor Krol's office please."
The operator takes a minute to connect me. After a minute of Muzak playing over the line, Armand Krol coughs into the receiver and says hello in a gruff tenor.
"Your Honor, this is Jim Gordon at Blackgate—"
"Jim, what in God's name are you doing there? Don't tell me they've got you playing bad cop now. You're not the type."
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I say and rub one of my temples. "New job, same old crap."
"Can't argue with that—"
I don't hear what he says next, because the door to the interrogation room explodes outward. The force of the kick is so great that when the door lands it skids for an extra foot or three. A moment later, Cobblepot's fat-ass rolls across the floor too.
Batman follows that, his steps falling even on the tiled floor.
"Uhm…"
"Is that Krol?" he asks.
"Yes," I say and he yanks the phone right out of my hand.
"Krol," he rasps into the receiver.
"Jim?"
"No."
"…Batman?"
"Get me Jeremiah Arkham. Now."
"Well," Krol pries. "I don't think I can just run to Arkham and tell him to open the doors. It's a place of business; he can run it how he wants—"
"It's a state hospital." Batman bears his teeth as he speaks. He's getting agitated. His grip tightens and the plastic casing on my cellular starts to buckle under the pressure. "I need to see Jeremiah Arkham—now. I'm not going to let you stand in the way of my investigation."
"Listen, Batman, if you think you can push me around you've got another thing coming! I'm the Mayor! And you're nothing at all."
"Get me Arkham or I'll tear down his prison brick by brick if I have to. Understood?"
Silence.
"Understood?" Batman repeats.
"Fine," Krol concedes. "I'll have my people call him."
Batman hands the phone back to me. I close the connection.
"What did Cobblepot tell you?"
"He's privy to something major, though he wouldn't say what. All he gave me were names. Joker, Dent and Crane."
I glance at Cobblepot, and back at Batman.
"Odd. As to why those three would conspire. And why would they leave him out?"
"He's no murderer. That sets him apart. Apparently." Batman turns to leave, his cape billowing and flowing behind him. I fall in step, trying to keep up with his swift gait. "If I were you, though, I'd keep him under lock and key. The Rogues may not want his help but he could be a useful tool just the same."
Continued...
