The day started out just like any other. I got up at eight, had some coffee and a light breakfast, and then took a fast shower. I was more careful than usual as I applied my makeup, making sure that I had on enough to really brighten up my appearance without looking overdone. Getting dressed was the easier part of my morning; I had my outfit prepared for the last few days. I wore a white button-down shirt tucked into a powder blue pencil skirt, along with my favorite pair of black pumps. I had originally planned on wearing my hair down, but seeing as it took away from the professionalism of my outfit, I tied it back into a neat bun. Instead, I unbuttoned the top two buttons on my shirt, so as not to make me look too starchy.
Just as I was about to leave, I checked myself out in the mirror one last time. I examined myself from every angle, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees. My makeup was nothing special, but I liked the simplicity of it. My clothes fit nicely, although I noticed that my hips looked rounder than I would have liked. My hair looked boring, but there was nothing I could do about that now. This is as good as it's gonna get.
With that parting thought, I left my apartment and headed for the asylum.
Arkham Asylum sat atop a tall, winding hill deep within the outskirts of Gotham. An electrified security fence surrounded the property, threatening any inmates that dared to escape. How do they still manage to get out? I thought to myself as the taxi rounded the final turn and pulled up in front of the asylum.
I was already nervous about my interview with Arkham's head psychologist, Doctor Joan Leland, and my nerves only intensified as I got a look at the asylum up close. It was an old, gothic-style building that was straight out of a horror movie. I quickly handed the cab driver and twenty-dollar bill and hurried out of the car.
The interior of Arkham Asylum was the exact opposite of it's exterior. The facility was completely modernized, done up in varying chromes and metals. The shiny tiled floor glistened like a mirror. Along the walls were oversized black and white photographs of the Arkham staff, looking poised and determined. The internal decor of the asylum calmed me slightly. I rolled my shoulders, straightened out my clothes, and walked with as much confidence as I could muster up to the guard at the front desk. The guard was a handsome African-American man with muscles that nearly bulged out of his uniform. I couldn't help but notice that he was missing one of his hands; in it's place was a silver hook.
"Hello, I'm here to see Doctor Joan Leland," I said once I reached the desk. I glanced at the guards name tag and read that his name was Aaron Cash.
"Your name, miss?" said Cash, giving me a speculative once-over. I suddenly regretted my wardrobe choice. Maybe I don't look enough like a doctor?
"Harleen Quinzel. Doctor Harleen Quinzel," I corrected myself.
Cash picked a clipboard up off his desk and quickly scanned the page. "Yep, here you," he said, pointing to my name with his hook. "Take the elevator up to the second floor. Doctor Leland's office will be the first door on the right."
I thanked Cash and followed his instructions up to the second floor. I got off the elevator and immediately found Doctor Leland's office. After knocking on the heavy wooden door twice, a voice called out to me from behind it.
"Come in."
I slowly opened up the door and saw Doctor Leland sitting behind a large glass desk. The desktop was cluttered with folders, mountains of paper, assorted office supplies, and the latest edition iMac. Her name plate was barely hanging on to the front of her desk. Doctor Leland was a small woman, and her desk nearly overwhelmed her.
"Yes?" she said, looking down her nose at me. Clearly, this woman is a legend in her own mind.
"Doctor Leland, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," I began, extending my hand out to her. "I'm Doctor Quinzel. I'm here for my interview."
Doctor Leland took my outstretched hand and gave it a limp shake. Her expression only slightly warmed up once I introduced myself.
"What a treat," she smiled unconvincingly. "Please, have a seat." She motioned to the two leather armchairs directly in front of her desk. I quickly took a seat.
"Now, Doctor Quinzel," she began, pulling out a folder with my name on it from one of the haphazard piles on her desk. "What brings you to our charming facility? Anyone with credentials as wonderful as yours could work in any hospital they wanted." She gave me that phony smile again, and she made no attempt to hide her sarcasm when she said wonderful. Already I didn't like her.
"Well, I'm sure you are well aware that Arkham Asylum is the world's leading hospital from the criminally insane. Forgive me for saying so, Doctor, but I have always been fascinated by extreme personalities. I think this asylum would be a truly compelling place to work." I knew I had given a perfect answer. I had rehearsed that response for weeks. It sounded damn good to me, but Doctor Leland narrowed her eyes and looked down her nose at me again.
"Extreme personalities?" she rolled the words around on her tongue. "Is that your way of saying high profile patients?" Doctor Leland spat the last three words, her brow crinkling with disgust.
"Wh - no, that isn't what I meant at all," I stammered, taken aback by her reaction.
"Oh come on, Doctor," she continued, talking to me as if I were a child she had just caught in a lie. "I can practically smell you ambitions. What did you have in mind, a tell-all book?" She cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at me, and I felt my face flush.
How did she know?
"I've been in this line of work for a long time, Doctor Quinzel," said Doctor Leland. "I see cocky newcomers like you every year, who come in here eager to get some alone time with our most controversial patients so that they can exploit them for their own gain. But let me tell you something, Doctor: These are hardcore criminals we have here. Murderers. Rapists. Cannibals. Pure psychotics. They can smell a lie in an instant and would sooner tear you apart with their bare hands than sit down and talk to you. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes, Doctor," I said, my voice caught in my throat. "But I do really want to work here."
Doctor Leland closed her eyes in frustration and pinched the bridge of her nose. The air in her office suddenly grew very tense and heavy, and I found myself struggling to breathe. Finally, her eyes opened and shifted back to me. I squirmed under her gaze.
"Quite frankly, I do not trust you, Doctor Quinzel," she seethed. She said doctor as if it were a dirty curse word. She picked up my file and waved it at me. "I have in front of me your student records from Gotham University. Upon closer inspection, it seems to me like you slept your way to your psychology degree." Doctor Leland looked up from my file and trained her intense stare back at me. I thought I was about to combust from within, my face flaming with both rage and humiliation. Who is she to pass judgement on my personal life?
I bit my tongue and fought to remain professional. "Excuse me for being blunt, Doctor Leland, but none of that is any of your business."
For the first time since I entered her office, Doctor Leland gave a genuine smile. It was a frightening sight.
"Spare me, Doctor Quinzel," she chuckled. "You're wasting your time."
"So you're saying I'm here for nothing?" I said, my blood boiling. Without realizing it, I had risen from my seat.
"If it were up to me alone," she started. "You would never hold any position here. Not even as a custodian. But..." She trailed off, sighing a heavy, aggravated sigh.
But? There's a but!
"But, the decision was not up to me. And luckily for you, the Board of Directors did not see through your charade, and they were greatly impressed with your travesty of a resume," she sighed again, her whole body deflating with annoyance.
"What are you saying?" I replied, dumbly. Clearly I knew what this meant.
"You start today," she said through gritted teeth. She picked up the sleek black office phone from the corner of her desk and punched in a short succession of numbers.
"Cash, this is Doctor Leland," she said into the phone. "I am sending Doctor Quinzel down to you. Please show her around the facility. She's been assigned to the CI ward. Thank you." She looks up from the phone and casts her eyes back at me, their steely coldness boring though me.
"Get out of here," she spits, as if I disgust her. She immediately turns her attention to her paperwork and no longer acknowledges my presence. I turn on my heel and exit her office, heading back for the elevator.
Bitch.
Aaron Cash greets me outside the elevator doors. He wears a cheery smile on his face, and I immediately like him. Too bad all of the Arkham staff isn't this sweet.
"I hope your meeting went well," he says as he walks over to me. "First stop is the security office, where we'll take a quick photo of you and give you a temporary ID. Sound good?" Cash starts walking in the direction that I presume the security office is in, and I fall into step alongside him.
We finally make it to the security office, a small room filled with television monitors that display the recordings of security cameras all throughout the asylum. An iMac overwhelms a small desk in the far corner of the room. In the middle of the room, a camera rests atop a tall tripod.
"Would you please stand over there, Doctor," Cash says, motioning to the space directly in front of the camera. I do as I'm told and wait as Cash adjusts the tripod until the camera is eye-level with me.
"Alright now, give us a pretty smile," he says, and my mouth quirks up into a happy grin. Cash takes a quick snapshot, and I involuntarily blink from the flash.
"That's it," Cash says, and I step away from the camera. He walks over to the iMac, and I can't help but watch as he presses the keys with both his good hand and his hook. Within seconds, the printer beside the computer churns out a small rectangle with my name on it. Cash cuts the rectangle out of the 8 x 11 piece of paper, slides it into a lamented ID holder, and then hands it over to me. I clip the temporary ID to the lapel of my dress shirt.
"Now you're all set," he smiles, patting my shoulder with his good hand. "Your official ID will be ready within the next couple of days."
"Thanks Cash," I say, smiling back at him. I could tell I was already going to enjoy having him around. What a nice guy.
"I bet you're eager to see the rest of the asylum," he laughs, breaking my reverie.
"Oh, certainly," I giggle, following Cash out of the room. We walk in silence back to the main elevator.
"You're in for a real treat," he says once we reach the elevator. He uses his hook to press the call button. "We've got loonies like you've never seen before here at Arkham."
"Well, I hope I can do something about that," I laugh nervously.
"You ain't the first to say that, doc," he snorts. "Here's hoping you're the change Arkham has been looking for."
"I sincerely hope so," I say just as the elevator arrives. When we step inside, Cash presses the button for the top floor.
"You're working with the CI's," he giving me a sympathetic frown. "You sure you're ready for all that?"
I look at him with a puzzled expression on my face. "I'm not sure what the CI's are," I admit.
"The criminally insane," he explains without sounding presumptuous. "Arkham's speciality."
My mouth suddenly goes dry. No, I scold myself. Don't be nervous. This is what you wanted.
"I'm up for the challenge," I say slyly, hopefully regaining some of my composure.
"I hope so, doc," Cash says, an edge in his voice. "Doctor Leland must really have it out for you, sending you here on your first day."
"Oh, you noticed?" I quip, and we both giggle.
"Well, she's probably just jealous of a pretty little thing like you who obviously knows a thing or two about psychology," he replies with a smile.
Before I can thank him, the elevator doors open, and we are in the ward for the criminally insane. I slowly follow Cash out of the elevator. Before us is a long corridor, the ceiling lined with fluorescent lights. At the end of the hall is a large metal door, and I follow Cash towards it.
"The inmates are just beyond that door, I suppose?" I ask, unable to mask my nerves.
"You got that right," Cash smiles warmly. "But don't you worry. They're all in escape-proof cages. None of them will bother you. Today," he added quickly at the end.
Once we made it to the metal door, Cash produced a gigantic keyring from one of his pockets and unlocked the door. He stepped through the doorway first, and then held it open with his arm so that I could pass through. The heavy door closed with a loud thud behind us.
This corridor was even longer than the last one, and both the left and right walls were lined with cells. Instead of the usual metal bars, all of the cells on this floor were enclosed with thick plexiglass that reached all the way up to the ceiling. Each cell had an identical metal door in the center of the plexiglass that could only be unlocked from the outside. Quarter-sized circles were carved into the plexiglass along the sides and above the door. These cells certainly looked escape proof.
Out of the corner of my eye, a striking flash of green caught my attention. In the first cell on my left, a statuesque woman with fiery red hair sat on the floor of her cell, meditating with her eyes closed. The flash of green that I saw turned out to be her skin, which was the color of grass. She had striking features and long, shapely legs. This creature was stunning.
"That's Pamela Isley," Cash said from behind me, cutting off my thoughts. "Better known as Poison Ivy."
"Ah, yes," I said, nodding my head. "I've heard of her. The famed botanist who got a little too carried away with her love for plants."
"That's about right," Cash replied, shaking his head. Just as we were walking away from her cell, Poison Ivy's eyes quickly popped open. She looked me up and down, winked slyly, and then resumed her mediation. How...peculiar.
"Here we go again," Cash turning around to face the cell opposite Poison Ivy's. I turned to see what he was looking at, and immediately screamed.
"Ahhhh!" My outburst made Cash flinch. I surprised even myself. I am not a screamer.
"Easy, doc," Cash said, putting an arm around my shoulders. "It's just Zsasz."
The man in the cell before us wore only a pair of neon-orange sweatpants that hug much too loosely from his boney physique. From head to toe, his skin was carved with tiny lines. His head was completely bald, and even his scalp sported fleshy pink marks. Zsasz was pounding on the plexiglass like a monkey in a zoo, snarling and frothing at the mouth.
"Zsasz here's a serial killer. Keeps a tally on his body for every one of his victims. They almost don't get much loonier than him. Just ignore him. For now," Cash warned, ushering me away from the madman's cell.
The next inmate we saw was the polar opposite of Zsasz. This man had to have been well over nine feet tall and was about as wide as a bus. His muscles bulged unnaturally, and the man paced back and forth in his cell without acknowledging either Cash or myself.
"He's called Bane," Cash explained. "Unstoppable guy. He isn't exactly what you would call criminally insane, but we keep him here because these are the only cells that can hold him."
I took another look at Bane's cell. This one had a row of steel bars in addition to the plexiglass.
"Will this...hold him?" I used Cash's phrase. I gulped with fear as I waited for his response.
"It will for now," Cash said, not sounding as certain as I would have liked.
The inmate in the cell beside Bane's had his back to us, but I could see that he had been horrible disfigured in some way. One side of his body was completely burned. He had broad shoulders and a seemingly nice physique. I wondered if he had been a handsome man before his accident.
"Surely you've heard of Harvey Dent," Cash said with a wry smile.
"Of course," I nodded, finally recognizing the man behind the plexiglass.
"In here he's known as Two Face," Cash chuckled, and to my horror he knocked on the plexiglass. "Harvey! Turn around an greet the nice lady. Don't be rude," Cash scolded.
I heard a deep, aggravated sigh escape through the holes in the plexiglass. Suddenly, Two Face produced a coin from the breast pocket of his inmate uniform and tossed it up into the air.
"This is your lucky day," he said in a surprisingly charming voice. He turned around to face Cash and I, the unburned side of his mouth curled up in a smile. "The coin was in your favor."
I got a good look at Two Face while he was facing me. The unburned part of his face was strikingly handsome, but the other side was...monstrous. The skin on his arm was charred black, but the flesh on his face had been completely burned off. On one side of his face, he was just a charred black skeleton, the muscles and tendons in full view.
I wanted to introduce myself, but Cash grabbed me by the elbow and led me over to the next cell, the last one in the corridor.
"This guy here is something special," Cash joked. "He's the crown jewel in the Arkham crown."
What I expected to see was another crazed lunatic carrying on like a zoo animal.
Instead, my eyes fell on the most glorious creature I had ever seen.
"Doctor Quinzel," Cash began, making a swooping gesture with his hook. "May I present to you, the Joker."
It was like my internal systems completely shut off. My mouth fell open and I forgot to breathe. He was so beautiful.
His hair was a shocking green, even more so than Poison Ivy's skin. He had beady black eyes and long black eyelashes that made my heart flutter. His skin was as white as snow, and completely devoid of any blemishes or flaws. He had full, blood-red lips with scars along either side that stretched completely across his face.
He was laying down on his cot, the picture of relaxation. At the sight of me, he cocked an eyebrow suggestively and blew me a kiss.
"That's enough, clown!" Cash bellowed, swatting the plexiglass. I wanted to smack him. How dare he yell at him like that? The Joker giggled to himself at Cash's outburst, but said nothing.
"Well, that's all of them," Cash said, still a little perturbed by the Joker's advance. "Now to show you the rest of the place."
As we started away from his cell, I couldn't help but cast one more look back at the Joker. I longed to be in that cell with him. I wish he would have spoken to Cash so that I could have heard his voice. I bet it's heavenly.
Stop it, Harleen, I scolded myself. That's not what you're here for. He is a patient. A criminally insane patient.
As I looked back at the Joker, our eyes met and he gave me a flirty wink. That one will gesture completely melted my heart. I had to force myself not to sigh like a schoolgirl.
Cash stopped suddenly and turned back to me. "Before I forget," he said, fishing around in his pocket. His good hand pulled out a key.
"This is for you," he said. "It's the key to your new office. It's on the second floor, on the opposite end of the hall from Doctor Leland's."
Gee, that's a relief, I thought as I took the key from Cash.
"Thank you," I said, as he continued out of the Criminally Insane ward.
It had been a long day. I had spent the last few hours touring the asylum with Cash, and now, at half past seven, I finally made it to my office. It was a decent sized room with a large window, a glass desk identical to Doctor Leland's (complete with an iMac and a desk phone), two black leather armchairs, and an entire wall of empty black bookcases. Just as I was thinking of ways to spruce the place up, a little item on my desk caught my eye.
My breath caught in my chest just as I flipped the light switch. On my desk sat a single rose, a small white card attached to the stem by a piece of string. I walked over to the flower and cautiously picked up the card. The handwriting was a clear, flawless cursive.
I look forward to your visit. - J
I didn't know what to make of the note. I was both exhilarated and terrified. How had he gotten out of his cell? And why had he come to my office?
Another question lingered on the fringes of my mind. Just thinking about it made my stomach do somersaults and my cheeks flush.
Was he thinking about me as much as I thought about him?
After reading Joker's note, I sat around in my office for another half hour, unsure of what to do. Should I report the note? Surely he would be able to get out of his cell again. Who knew how often he had done so right under the staff's noses? I quickly cleared those thoughts from my mind, and instead thought about seeing Joker for the first time. I was not prepared for his attractiveness. Serial killers and psychotics should never be that good looking: it isn't fair. There was something about his unusual appearance that made him all the more enticing.
As I thought about him more, I made up my mind to head back to his cell and confront him about the note. Not because I cared so much about him escaping, but because it would give me an opportunity to see him again. I took a deep breath, stepped out of my office - making sure to lock the door - and dashed for the elevator.
It was eight o'clock now, and the only sound in the asylum was the clicking of my heels against the floor. I glanced around at the cells surrounding me, noticing that all of the occupants were asleep. Must be the nightly pills they're given, I noted. What if Joker was asleep, too?
Just as I was about to turn back to the elevator and leave, I heard faint whistling coming from the end of the corridor, in the direction of the Joker's cell. I followed the quiet tune down the hall, until I found myself face-to-face with him.
The Joker didn't look surprised to see me at all. He stopped whistling the second he saw me, and his face broke out into a cheerful grin.
"Nice to see you again, Doc," he cooed. I felt a nervous flutter growing in my stomach. Despite my nerves, I tried to remain poised.
"Would you like to explain how this came to be in my office?" I asked, showing him the card.
"What, you don't like roses?" he quipped. "Maybe you're an orchid kind of girl?"
"Doctor Leland won't be happy when she hears that you were out of your cell," I threatened.
He chuckled, and his serrated lips formed a teasing smile. "If you were going to tell her, you already would have."
He had me there. Of course I wasn't going to tell Doctor Leland. I didn't know what she would do to him if she knew.
"I think I'm taking a liking to you, doll," he continued, inching closer to the plexiglass. I felt a flutter in my stomach, and I struggled to keep my voice steady. I tried to play coy.
"Oh yeah? Is there something in particular?"
"I like your name," he said, his mouth stretching into a grin. The scars along the sides of his mouth made it seem as if his smile spread across his entire face.
I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably. "And why is that?" I asked, not sure what he was leading up to.
"Harleen Quinzel," he said, licking his bright red lips. His eyes quickly scanned me from the ground up, lingering on my name tag. "Play around with it, and you get Harley Quinn, like a harlequin clown."
"You don't say," I replied trying to maintain my composure. I couldn't help but stare into his eyes, dark as an inkwell, yet with so much light behind them. They were the eyes of a little boy.
"You can see how it would appeal to me," he smirked. He gave me a wink, and his nose crinkled up in the cutest way.
What am I saying?
"That'll be all for this evening," I said, quickly turning on my heel, all the while fighting the urge to look at him.
But he wouldn't let up. Even as I started walking down the corridor back to the elevator.
"It's a name…" he started as I walked away from his cell.
Keep walking, I told myself. He's just messing with you.
"…that makes me smile."
Don't fall for it.
"It makes me feel like I have someone to relate to for once." His voice sounded sincere, sad. I tried to ignore it.
I wonder how many times he's used that one. Just keep walking.
"I finally feel like there's someone I can share my secrets with."
I stopped dead in my tracks and slowly turned around to face him. In his eyes I saw a nothing but loneliness and gentleness.
He meant what he said. He had to. I started back to his cell.
"I feel like I can trust you, Doctor Quinzel." I stood before him now, only the plexiglass separating us. I pressed myself up against the glass and looked deep into his eyes, searching for the root of his pain, a hint of what made him the way he is now. I stared at him like I was in a daze, as if his attractiveness made my brain unable to function. What had gotten into me?
His expression lit up as I brought myself as close to him as the plexiglass would allow. His mouth stretched across his entire face again as he smiled.
"Or may I call you Harley?"
It was Friday, my very first actual therapy session with the Joker. I had spent all week preparing for this day, but no amount of preparation could calm my nerves. Doctor Leland doubted my ability to work with the Joker, insisted that today's session be filmed and reviewed by Arkham's Board of Directors. If they were satisfied with the tape, I would be allowed to continue treating the Joker. If they were unhappy with our session, they would immediately transfer me to another wing of the asylum, where I would have to spend my first few weeks as an intern again.
Then there was the anxiety over being locked in a room with the Joker. Not because he was a mass murderer and psychopath, but because I hadn't been able to stop thinking about him. I couldn't erase the image of his sad, lonely eyes from my brain, couldn't forget the longing in his voice as he begged to confide in me.
Now I sat in the dimly lit room by myself, rearranging the papers in his file and brushing invisible lint from my clothes as I anxiously awaited for the patient to be brought in. To the my left was a two-way mirror, which concealed Dr. Leland, who was preparing to film our session. I gave an acknowledging nod towards the mirror, knowing that Dr. Leland would catch it, although I had no way of knowing her response.
Just then, a guard stepped into the room, clutching the Joker's elbow.
"Here's your patient, Doctor," said the guard dismissively. He led the Joker to the empty seat across from me, handcuffed him to it, and left the room as promptly as he entered it.
At the sight of the Joker, my heart skipped a beat. He was even more striking than I remembered, with pale, marble-like skin and bright green hair. Except for the scars beside his lips, his face was without a flaw…
The sound of the Joker clearing his throat ripped me from my thoughts. He had a smug grin on his face, and I realized then that I was practically drooling over him. I immediately composed myself, not wanting him to think that he had any power over me. I had done my research on him, familiarized myself with all of his tricks and jokes, determined to not fall into one of his traps.
"Good afternoon," I began, straightening my posture. I flashed him a pleasant smile as I opened up his file. "How are you feeling?"
The Joker stretched, leaning as far back in his seat as the cuffs would allow. His shirt rode up slightly, displaying a sliver of his toned stomach. I couldn't help but look.
He caught me.
"I'm doing swell today, doc." He paused for a moment, his eyes sweeping over me, taking me in. "You like what you see?" He winked and blew me a kiss, no doubt testing the waters for a reaction. I tried my best not to give him one, but I felt my face flush. I moved my eyes back down to his file, refusing to look up at him.
"What interests me about your file is that, though it is extensive, it is lacking in one very important area," I said, finally daring to look at him. He leaned back in his chair again, intrigued.
"And where might that be?"
"Your life before you became a professional criminal. Before you took on the identity as the Joker." He looked at me as if I were a child trying to outsmart him.
"I never met anyone worthy of the story," he replied smoothly. "Until now, that is."
"I'm honored," I quipped.
"I'm afraid my story is not a very nice one," he said with a pout.
"There aren't many in this line of work," I said, encouraging him to go on. As the seconds passed I felt my nervousness evaporate, and I suddenly grew comfortable in his company.
The Joker cleared his throat. "It all started with my father," he began.
I immediately whipped out a pen from my overcoat pocket, ready for anything he had to say.
"My father used to beat me up all the time."
Anything but that.
"The first time I ever saw him smile, I was eight years old. He took me to the circus for my birthday. There was this clown whose pants would fall down every few seconds, and he would carry on as long as he could without picking them up. The audience went crazy, especially my father. Seeing him laugh like that made me laugh, too. It was our very first father-son moment. I thought things would be that way from then on.
"The very next day, I waited anxiously for my father to return from work. I had taken a pair of his dress pants from the laundry and practiced the clown's routine all day long. When my father came through the door, I started imitating the clown, but I stumbled and tore the seat of the pants. I never saw him get so angry. That was the end of our father-son bond."
I scribbled away furiously in my notepad, taking down everything he said. When he finished, I glanced up at him and saw his mouth cast down in a frown. Tears threatened to spew from his eyes.
"What happened after that?" I asked gently. I hadn't realized that my hand was resting on top of his.
"Ol' pops broke my nose," he said, looking off into the distance as if reliving the memory.
"That's when my fascination with clowns started," he explained. "I was obsessed with pranks and gags, and the way they dressed. It started out as an innocent fascination, really. Clowns brought so much joy to people, even those as cold as my father. I became obsessed with learning the funniest jokes and tricks, because, despite our broken bond, I wanted to please my father. I thought that if I could make him laugh, I could make him love me." He stopped suddenly, sniffled.
"You okay?" I asked, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "We can stop there if you'd like to."
He laughed weakly. "That's the downside of comedy, I suppose. There are just some folks out there that'll never get the joke, like my father." He paused, cleared his throat.
"And Batman," he growled.
"It's interesting that you mention Batman," I replied, eager to change the topic. "He's about the only consistent topic in your file." That made him laugh.
"I guess you can say I have a rodent problem," he giggled, and I couldn't help but laugh along with him. "Seems Bats always shows up to ruin my fun."
I was about to ask him more about Batman, when two prison guards suddenly entered the room and lifted the Joker from his seat.
"That will be all for today, Doctor Quinzel," said Doctor Leland's voice from an intercom I couldn't locate.
"I feel better already, Doc," the Joker quipped as the guards led him out of the room.
I sat in stunned silence, his words barely registering. I hated seeing him go. We were getting somewhere, making progress. Doctor Leland was probably just jealous that I had gotten more out of the Joker in a few minutes than she had in all her years at Arkham. I was so caught up in my thoughts, silently cursing Doctor Leland, that I almost didn't hear his parting words.
"Same time next week?"
I was shaking with rage as I walked into the next room to confront Doctor Leland. I burst through the heavy double doors and found her sitting alone at a long table, quietly jotting down notes into a pad. She was the picture of nonchalance.
"Why did you do that?" The words tumbled from my mouth before I had time to consider them.
"Your session had gone on long enough," she replied, not once glancing up from her notes to look at me. "We recorded plenty of footage for the Board of Directors to review."
"I was getting somewhere," I spat. "He told me his whole backstory."
Doctor Leland laughed. "I wouldn't believe a single thing that comes out of his mouth. He's a criminal, Doctor Quinzel. Deception is his specialty."
"You heard our conversation," I pressed. "You heard that sadness in his voice, the pain. You're gonna tell me all of that was bullshit?"
For the first time since I entered the room, Doctor Leland looked up at me. She gently removed her glasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose. After a moment she looked back at me, just as I realized that I was clutching the edges of the table.
"Harleen," she began, her voice more serious than I had ever heard it before. " I understand that you are very ambitious, but your seriousness frightens me. Please tell me you didn't fall for the Joker's performance in there." She spoke to me as if I were a shamefully gullible child. Little did she know, career ambitions had nothing to do with my concern.
"That was no performance in there," I said between gritted teeth.
"Believe what you will, Miss Quinzel." She turned her attention back to her notepad, deliberately not referring to me as Doctor. "I should warn you, an episode like this will not sit well with the Board of Directors. I need not remind you that your future at this institution is in their hands."
I started to reply, but my mouth quickly clamped shut. She was right.
"When can I see him again?" I asked finally, struggling to keep my composure.
"That will be up to the Board members to decide once they have reviewed your tape," she said, bored. Doctor Leland was stoic and collected, but my heart lurched inside my chest.
"How long will that take?" I somehow manage to ask, despite my mouth suddenly going dry.
"A few weeks," she said with a heavy sigh, no longer hiding her irritation with me. She looked back up at me with a cocked eyebrow. "Will that be all, Doctor?" She said that last word as if it were a filthy slur. I wanted so badly to curse her out, to no longer bury my growing distaste and anger towards her. It took every ounce of strength I had to feign levelheadedness. I forced my mouth to form a quick, curt smile. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Leland," I said ever-so politely. She did not look up to acknowledge me as I turned around on my heel and walked out of the room.
That's okay, Doc, I thought to myself. You'll get yours.
I returned to my office, still fuming over my meeting with Doctor Leland. There was nothing I could do about her now. She was my boss, and I was expected to quietly go along with everything she did and said.
That's alright. I'll get enough information for my book and blow the lid off this place.
I sat down at my desk and pulled out the pad from my session with the Joker. I scanned the notes I had jotted down earlier.
Patient confesses to childhood abuse, strained relationship with father.
Trip to the circus = only father/son bonding moment.
Patient was abused when gag failed; father broke his nose.
Fixation with clowns began after altercation with father. Patient felt that he had to try harder to gain his father's love, which he attempted to do by making him laugh. Did he ever succeed? What became of his father? Is he still alive? Must ask during next session.
The Batman remains consistent throughout Patient's file.
I read over my notes, unsure of what to make of Joker. He was an Arkham Asylum regular, but it was my suspicion that he had never been properly diagnosed. Doctor Leland had written him off as a psychopath, which surprised me, to say the least. There has never been a direct connection between serial killers and psychopaths. In fact, a recent diagnostic that measured the antisocial symptoms and emotional state of psychopaths revealed that they are not inherently violent or destined to commit murder. That's not to say that there aren't any violent psychopaths who went on to become serial killers, but those instances do not necessarily go hand-in-hand.
I booted up my laptop searched through my files for my notes on ASPD: Antisocial Personality Disorder, a condition commonly found in serial killers. My eyes darted quickly across the computer screen.
Subjects diagnosed with ASPD, often considered to be serial killers, show little to no regard for the law and for social norms. According to United States Congress, a serial killer is defined as someone who commits a minimum of three murders during a period of over a month. They act impulsively, with very little consideration for their own safety or that of others. The majority of serial killers in the United States are caucasian males with low to middle- class backgrounds, usually in their late twenties or early thirties.
Okay, sounds a lot like Joker.
Subjects tend to have a lengthy history of arrests and are often involved in physical altercations. Occurs more in men than in women.
Maybe Doctor Leland was right?
They are capable of lying, cheating and deceiving so skillfully that it is near impossible to tell when they are lying.
This might as well be ABOUT the Joker!
There was one passage that jumped out at me, made me reconsider his diagnosis.
Subjects must be over the age of eighteen before they can be diagnosed with ASPD, but symptoms generally begin to appear during adolescence.
There was no evidence to suggest that Joker displayed any of these symptoms during his childhood. Instead of being an abuser, he was the abused. He was obsessed with clowns and would do anything for a laugh. And above all, he only wanted his father to love him. Nothing about his childhood alluded that he himself had been violent. The Joker hadn't taken on his criminal identity until he was an adult.
Already there were a few problems with Doctor Leland's diagnosis of the Joker. For one thing, he couldn't possibly have ASPD, no matter how many of the symptoms resonated with him. The Joker simply didn't have an antisocial personality. He left some sort of signature with every crime he committed: his victim's faces would either be stretched into a tight smile if he used Joker gas, or he would leave behind a lone Joker card. It wasn't uncommon to see him on television either, after he would hijack a news helicopter or studio. Joker was not afraid of having his face out there. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it. The antisocial angle was already ruled out in my book.
But there was other factors that convinced me otherwise. Most victims of serial killers have something in common, whether it be their age, race, occupation, gender, or appearance. In many cases, there is a sexual element to the killings. This ruled the Joker out immediately. He killed at random; there were no patterns to his work. He killed merely because he felt like it. And, at least to my knowledge, none of his crimes were of a sexual extent. They were usually random and without meaning, also uncommon for a serial killer, whose victims usually serve as "triggers" for the violence. Not only that, but serial killers always have a "cooling-off" period between the murders, where they take time off between each killing to make them appear random and unconnected. This was not the case for the Joker, who killed as often as he liked. Joker never utilized the idea of a "cooling-off" period and, as a matter of fact, would rather everyone be able to distinguish his crimes from those of the rest of Gotham's villains.
Psychologically, Doctor Leland's diagnosis didn't make sense. There was not enough concrete evidence to write the Joker off as being a psychopath. He wasn't even a by-the-book serial killer. I began to understand why the Joker never seemed to improve in the slightest, despite the fact that he had been to Arkham so many times before. How can you expect to cure a patient when you have misdiagnosed them? I was filled with a new breed of rage for Doctor Leland; not because she doubted my abilities, but because she continuously exploited the Joker. I was certain that she was well-aware of the fact that she had misdiagnosed him: if I was able to piece these facts together and realize this mistake, then surely she was as well. She probably loved the attention the Joker's incarceration brought to Arkham Asylum. It made me feel even worse for the Joker; he had grown up abused by his own father, and now he was being abused by Doctor Leland. Something had to be done.
Someone has to help him.