Shockwave

Note: this is the final part of a series. If you haven't read the stories preceding this, you will probably be confused. If you're new to the series, please click through to my profile and start at the beginning, a little story called Vivisection. Happy reading!

Interlude

And the Joker drops the knife, stepping smoothly out of the way just in time to avoid getting a mess on his shoes as it falls to the concrete floor with a clatter and a splatter of blood. He isn't quite as careful with his hands, and he tsks at the sight of the thin spray on his right wrist. With his left hand, he pats his pockets in search for the handkerchief he usually carries, remembers abruptly that it's currently being used as a gag, and rolls his eyes in mute exasperation. Oh, well. He stoops down and wipes the rubbery material clean on the uniform of the deputy he's just killed (will have killed, anyway; the guy's technically still twitching and gurgling but the Joker doesn't like his odds), then rises again, bracing a hand against his back as he goes and bending backwards until he feels a satisfyingly painful crack, followed by a fresh sense of looseness.

Mm, that's the stuff.

Now it's time to go get Emma.

Oh, Emma. If there is anything left in his withered heart that could love, she would be its object. (Probably for the better that it can't. He doesn't really remember why, but he gets the distinct impression that his love, back when he was still able to love, was inevitably deadly, and Emma is too much fun to be dead right now.)

He isn't in the habit of feeling such affection for ordinary people, but then, Emma isn't ordinary, is she? Despite all her efforts—and they are substantial—there's always something in her that betrays her, something that seems to veer just a little bit to the side of what can pass for normal. That tendency of hers makes her unpredictable, so it's a little like dating someone with DID—you never know who's going to show up to dinner. The Joker likes that, likes that she can't help herself. Makes him feel all tingly.

His reverie is interrupted before it can really get going, his eye drawn by the sudden glare of high beams through the dirty windows. He catches up his pocket watch—it fell from his vest pocket in the struggle and is still swinging by its chain—and consults the face, then hums in a pleased sort of way. "Right on time," he remarks out of the ragged corner of his mouth, then tucks the watch away and crosses the room, shoving the door open and letting himself out into the damp night.

I

Interrogation rooms are the pits. I've spent enough time in them by now, I think, to say that definitively. I know that's the point of interrogation rooms—to be unpleasant—but that hardly makes me feel better about my situation, which is this: hunched wearily in a hard chair, underneath ugly greenish light, hands shackled, waiting for an attorney who will probably never arrive as various people just ask me the same things in a seemingly-unending loop.

I wouldn't have asked for a lawyer if they hadn't arrested me the second the hospital cleared me for release. It seems the days of firm-but-polite requests, come on down to the station, no you're not in trouble we just want to talk to you, are over. They're looking to nail someone to the wall, and I imagine I'm the only person they've got on hand, though I don't know much for sure, since no one is telling me anything. The signs are there, enough for me to insist on representation and keep my mouth mostly shut.

I expected to get arrested, but I thought it would be by the state police, or whoever reigns over the little county upstate where I've been living. I expected I'd be dealing with the marshals that oversaw my flimsy witness protection. Instead, I'm at a police station in north Gotham, which was one of my first big indicators that something is screwy here. Whatever happened up at the farmhouse—whatever they think happened—was well out of the Gotham PD's jurisdiction, but here I am.

Another indicator that something's wrong is that I haven't heard a single thing from or about Jim Gordon. This last run-in with the Joker might have tested his sympathies beyond their limits, so it's not that I'm anticipating his help or support, but at the very least, I trust him to run things legally. Instead, I'm dealing with a small torrent of street officers, one after the other, and my requests for Gordon go completely unheeded.

For now, at least, I'm alone, which is a small mercy—I've never enjoyed the company of the police, much less so when I'm under suspicion. I roll my stiff neck in an effort to ease the discomfort, wincing when the motion irritates the still-healing wound there, now cleanly and professionally bandaged.

I'd been taken to the hospital shortly after the police arrived last night. I'd argued against it, though without much energy, and not for long: I needed some sort of break after the events of the previous days. I'd let them tend to the various cuts and scrapes I'd picked up, with an exception: I was careful not to reveal the livid scratches along the inside of my thigh, and resisted the one or two mild attempts made to examine me to an extent that would expose them. From what I could gather, the doctors and nurses didn't really know the details of my situation. If they had, they might have been more insistent, but as it was, they allowed me the modicum of privacy I demanded and limited their attentions to the visible injuries.

They kept me overnight, and I managed to sleep some, trying to get some rest before the storm I knew was coming. This morning, they discharged me—directly into the waiting arms of the Gotham Police.

That was hours ago, though I don't know how many, exactly. It feels like eight or more, though I haven't had access to a clock since they picked me up and realistically it's probably less. Same as the last time I was arrested, I haven't been processed, though I imagine that's going to change before much longer. I get the sense that they're being cautious, trying to figure out what charges to bring against me. It's a tricky situation: if they don't step carefully, they could accuse me of all the wrong things and get all those charges tossed out. They're waiting, I think, until they have a better understanding of what happened at the farmhouse, and I'm not giving them anything to work with until I speak to a lawyer. Since they are withholding a lawyer, things are at a standstill.

It sucks, but not as much as it could. I could be stuck indefinitely in a holding cell with people bigger and meaner than I am. Or, I think in an effort to brighten my outlook, I could be dead, killed by Victor Zsasz. Or worse: I could be hanging out with Victor right now.

"Noooo thank you," I whisper to myself, and then the door behind me opens with a clang and I focus up.

I know as soon as I see him that this new guy means trouble, tipped off by his plain clothes—black pants, rumpled white button-up. He keeps close to the wall as he circles me, and comes to a stop at the opposite side of the table, dropping a thick folder on the surface with a loud thwack. He doesn't sit or look at me, just stands slightly off-center, opening the folder and flipping through it, though his air is almost absent-minded. I sneak a glance at the file, and despite seeing it upside down, I see a few photos of the Joker in grotesque black and white before he flips over to plain typed text.

"Miss… Emma Vane," he says at length, "I'm Detective Lewis March," and then he looks at me.

He immediately gives me the creeps. Now that he's looking at me, I see the gauntness of his face, and I double-check his clothes, seeing the bagginess there and confirming that, yeah—in contrast to nearly every other cop I've met, he's about ten pounds underweight. Granted, it's not much, but he doesn't wear it well: his blue eyes, already large, seem to protrude from their hollow sockets, bulbous, and the fact that he hasn't blinked at all since he turned his gaze on me doesn't help. His face is cut severely and his wrists and fingers are bony. He's not ugly: he's young, about thirty, and tallish, maybe six feet. He has a full head of windswept brown hair and a clean-shaven face, his bone structure is good, and despite the thinness he would actually be quite handsome if not for the unsettling impression I get from him.

It's the way he's staring at me, I think. It's speculative, but more than that, it's hungry, vulture-like. In an effort to get him to stop, I actually respond to him: "Nice to meet you."

He smiles like he knows that's a lie, but it works: he drops his gaze again, keeps flipping through the file. "I gotta apologize for showing up so late. I've been running around all day, trying to piece together what I can about this case. It's—" he snorts, shaking his head ruefully—"it's crazy. Though I'm sure I don't need to tell you that." I can hear his understated accent by now, the way the r's seem to disappear from the ends of words, the slightly nasal vowels paired with harsh consonants. Gotham born and bred, then.

I don't oblige him by taking the opening he's offering. Instead, I say, "I asked for counsel some time ago, Detective March. Any update on that?" My voice has a bit of a rasp to it. It's been a while since anyone brought me water—I assume my lack of cooperation irritates them.

He glances up at me again, thankfully briefly this time. "Your public defender ran into some trouble on the way here. It'll be a little longer. In the meantime, why don't you and I have a conversation." It's not a request. He sits down on the edge of the table and leans a little towards me, casually infringing on my space, though he continues to study the file. "Emma, you've been in witness protection for… about six months, is that right?"

I don't much care for his informal use of my name, but it's not like I can do anything about it. I don't say anything. I don't know what direction this line of question is going in, but I suspect it won't be very good.

He gives it a second, and when I don't answer, he moves on seamlessly. "At what point, would you say, did the Joker first make contact?"

I scratch my eyebrow and don't answer, training my gaze on the surface of the table. I don't want to meet his eyes, for fear that he'll see something ugly in mine and take issue with it.

He lets the silence stretch this time, and after several long seconds, he leans down a bit, turning his head sideways in an effort to catch my eye. Continuing to avoid eye contact now will make me look guilty as hell, so I exhale softly through my nose, gathering, gathering my patience, then I look up.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting to see if this means I'm planning to talk, and prods, "Hm?", but I just stare back at him and try to look tired. It's not hard.

"These are the softball questions, Emma," he tells me.

I clear my throat and speak up. "Maybe so, but as long as you're withholding counsel, I'd rather not talk."

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully at me. "Why not? You're innocent, right? It'd be a big help if you could clear some stuff up for us."

This strikes me as transparent and terribly, terribly funny, though I try really hard not to show it, because I'm trying not to come across as shit-eating and smarmy. If a jury views this tape, I want them to see exhaustion and resignation, not smug confidence. Still, I think the amusement is probably visible in my eyes, at least to March, as I respond carefully: "You have a file on me?" He just looks back at me, not answering, but the question was rhetorical, so I go on: "Read about what happened March of last year, and then ask yourself how much I should trust the police."

He smiles thinly in response to that. It doesn't reach his eyes. "No one is withholding counsel," he says after a minute, dropping his eyes to the file again and idly turning a page. "Your attorney will be here shortly. Emma, the doctor that treated you at St. Elizabeth's, Dr. Owens, do you remember her?" He barely pauses this time, just shoots me a brief glance before he gets to the heart of it: "Well, she said that she examined and treated you the best she could, but that you refused a rape kit. Why is that?"

There are about a dozen good answers to that question, ranging from because I wasn't raped to because it's none of your goddamn business, or hers, either, but I don't give him any of them. I recognize a trap when I see one. Instead, I go on the offensive, hoping that my sudden rush of anger reads as impatience: "Where is Commissioner Gordon?"

Detective March doesn't like this question—his frown in response is subtle, but I'm looking for it, and I've had a lot of practice reading faces. "The commissioner has bigger things to worry about."

I can't quite hide my surprise at this answer. "Bigger than a Joker incident?"

He turns it back around on me. "Why are you asking for him?"

I hesitate, because it's just occurred to me that I might be endangering Gordon, putting him under suspicion by showing a preference for him. "He's always been in charge of my cases before," I say eventually. "Seems weird that he's not around. Did something happen?"

"It's Gotham City," March says. "Something's always happening." He has a point there, but I narrow my eyes as he clears his throat and changes the subject again. He gestures at his neck, indicating roughly the spot where the bandage is on mine, and asks, "This, what's this?"

I know I'm supposed to stay quiet, but I can't resist. "That's your neck."

He gives me a look that I think is supposed to be a smile, but it looks a little more like he's imagining what I look like dead. After a second, he moves on: "You told the officers on the scene that Victor Zsasz had been there, at your house. When did you meet Mr. Zsasz?"

I'm not paying particularly close attention to the questions, busy putting some details in order. Undeterred by my lack of response, March asks, "What about Bethany Miller?"

He must take the look on my face, the slowly arching brow, as questioning, because he clarifies: "The girl on your couch. Allegedly Mr. Zsasz's victim. Did you know her?"

(The expression March takes for inquisitiveness is not. It's suspicion.)

"Gordon doesn't even know, does he?" I ask.

A flat silence follows. I'm watching March closely, observing how he reacts to this, and his mouth goes tight—but his eyes, weird and wide and unblinking, start to shine. All at once, he reminds me of a mad dog. I'm not as frightened by this as I should be. I've had some experience in the area—though, of course, I'd feel better if I wasn't locked to a table.

"That's why I'm back in Gotham instead in some dinky little jail upstate," I continue, since he doesn't seem eager to fill the sudden silence. "This didn't happen under your jurisdiction. That's why you haven't gotten me a lawyer, that's why I haven't been charged with anything, that's why Jim Gordon doesn't know about this—I'm not even supposed to be here." I narrow my eyes, more thoughtful than challenging, and tilt my head curiously. "Am I?"

March studies me for a moment, then smiles another of those quick, empty smiles, and glances at the file. He flips a few pages, then, without any visible change of expression, abruptly slams it shut. In his same casual tone, he tells me, "Commissioner Gordon has… made up his mind about you. In his view, you're a helpless victim. That's it."

"But you're not so sure."

He eyes me. "I'm sure that you don't act like a victim."

"What's off about me? In your professional opinion, I mean," I add, with a hint of sarcasm I can't quite quell.

March slips off the edge of a table, back onto his feet. He keeps leaning close, but now, at a standing height, he has much more of a looming quality—especially when he plants his hands, palms flat, on either side of mine, widening his stance. "You? Too calm. Not scared enough," he says, shrugging the question off and changing the subject: "Aside from the unfortunate incident with officers Willowes and Rodriguez, what reason do you have for not trusting the police?"

This feels like a trap. There's no way it's not a trap. He's staring me down so intently that it's hard to meet his eyes, but I make myself hold his gaze, even as my jaw shifts, betraying my frustration at not being able to answer freely.

He doesn't seem to really want my input, though—the way he pauses, it seems like it's more for effect than because he expects an answer, and then he's talking again: "I know the Gotham PD gets a bad rap, I mean, I live here, too. I see it. Harassment, brutality? Beating confessions out of suspects? I'm not going to lie to you: that does happen. You gotta understand, when you work for law enforcement in a city like this, you see a lot of the same people in and out of jail. When you start to get to know them, you start to accept that the most effective way to deal with them is to hand out a measure of the pain that they inflict on others."

Oh my god, this is super interesting, tell me all about it. I'm wise enough (and he's enough of an unknown to me) that I don't give voice to the sarcasm.

"The thing about that, though, the thing the average citizen doesn't realize is that they will never have to fear us. We're here to protect them, and by and large, we know the difference between them and a scumbag. You know?"

He lifts one hand abruptly, making me flinch—just a flutter of the eyelids, a small little inhale through the nose, but I know he caught it, what with the way he's watching me. He doesn't comment, though—just reaches back and thumps his stomach with his knuckles once, twice. "It's a gut thing."

I know I shouldn't say anything. Sanctioned or not, I'm still under arrest and likely being recorded. The more I say, the more they can twist my words into an admission of guilt. Still—stung, perhaps, that he'd succeeded in startling me—I'm speaking before I can stop myself, exactly as I'm prone to do. "You're kind of a showman, huh? You know, you remind me of someone."

He pauses. I've put him off his flow, but he doesn't follow this rabbit trail, which is interesting, because I would think he'd jump at the chance to talk about the Joker. As it is, he just stands entirely still for a moment, like he's frozen in place. Then, he blinks once, pulls in a short breath through his nose, and says, as if I haven't interjected, "You want to know what my gut tells me about you?"

After a long, pointed pause, during which he does nothing but stare at me, waiting for me to do my part, I oblige him and ask, "What does your gut tell you about me?"

He straightens up finally, taking his hands off the table and resting them on his narrow hips. Quietly, he says, "It tells me that you're not innocent. That you're a liar. You've abused the protections Commissioner Gordon has offered you, and you know more than you're saying, and it's my job—" he lifts a knobby wrist, puts his hand lightly to his chest—"to find out what you're hiding."

There's a pause of about ten seconds while I absorb this and he lets me, then he lifts his eyebrows encouragingly and adds, "You know, it's up to you, Emma. You decide how it goes from this point."

"You wanna know what my gut tells me about you?" I ask, almost before he's done speaking.

I expect him to ignore me again, stay on-script. Instead, he looks at me with every appearance of patience and says, "Tell me."

I give it a few seconds, just for dramatic effect. "It tells me I can't trust you," I say eventually, mildly. "It tells me you're out to make a name for yourself and you don't care who you've got to sacrifice to do it. It's also speculating that you watched too much Law and Order growing up, probably wanted to be Bobby Goren, am I right? Thing is, Goren was just a weirdo. He wasn't out of his mind."

I'm just a little surprised when March's creepy, intense stare gives way to laughter that looks genuine. It doesn't last long, just a couple of seconds, then fades to a grin. He studies me for a second, still smiling, then flips the binder closed and picks it up. "I'll give you some time to think things over," he says, and I nod, because as boring and uncomfortable as this room is, I think it'll be better without him in it.

He passes closer to me on the way out than he did on the way in, and when he pauses next to me, I just have time to reflexively steel myself before his hand comes down to pat my shoulder, a lot more firmly than necessary, centering on the day-old (and therefore extremely tender) bruise there, a souvenir from my time with Victor.

Though my clenched teeth are sufficient to keep me from making a sound, I can't help but shrink away from the touch. I can't go far, and he just hits me again, once, then says, "Really, Emma. Think it over. We don't have to be enemies."

He leaves his hand resting on my shoulder for another moment, then finally, he goes, the door buzzing to release him from the room, then closing solidly behind him, leaving me—finally—alone.

I wait for a minute, waiting for the rippling pain to subside, then I sigh, leaning back in my chair—carefully, so as not to put any further pressure on the agitated bruise. March's involvement obviously isn't good news, but for now, I plan to stay optimistic. My experience with Jim Gordon tells me he's a wise man. March might have succeeded in keeping this story hushed up so far, but it'll break eventually—Gotham's citizens hate the Joker so much they can't resist reading about his latest misadventures, so the press is aggressive when there's a story to be found. Sooner or later, someone will talk, and Gordon will figure it out.

I just have to find a way to be okay until then.

A/N - Detective March is some strange hybrid of Jake Gyllenhaal's characters Lou Bloom from Nightcrawler and Detective David Loki from Prisoners, both of which are excellent movies worth a watch (though the latter will make you feel a lot better about him than the former lol). He's also named after Ryan Gosling's character from The Nice Guys. Not because there's any similarity there whatsoever, just because I said so.

Chapters are shorter to start with, but as the action builds the word count will quickly get out of control, as it does. Love you guys, have fun reading this at work or school or wherever you're definitely not supposed to be reading it, I'll update again as soon as I can xoxo