- Author Note - The Joker and all other Batman characters owned by DC Comics. The Joker in this story is Heath Ledger's disturbing, divine creation. Please note the Joker will be seen starting in chapter three, I needed to set the stage for him so please stick with me; also I've taken a little creative license with Harley Quinn because I just don't see Ledger's Joker attracted to the Harley from the comics. This is my first story and its been rolling in my head since I first saw TDK so please read and review. Thanks so much!
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Frank W. Peterman had seen a lot of freaks in the twenty years he had worked at Arkham Asylum, but no one, not even that crazy bastard called the Joker, held the power to frighten him like Patient 73321. He stared into the safety glass window with a frown.
Floor D, fifth floor at Arkham Asylum, was where the worst of the worst at the institution were held. Jonathan Crane, aka The Scarecrow, Carmine Falcone, Ricky 'The Razor' Phelps, The Joker, Muhammad Robie, and Patient 73321.
Crane was a former psychiatrist at Arkham who was slightly off himself and had developed a special fear toxin he'd used quite liberally on his former patients as well as the general populace of Gotham. Falcone, once head of the Gotham Mafia, was now completely insane thanks to Crane using the fear toxin; Falcone had in the past feared no one and now was terrified of everything. Ricky The Razor was a scrawny, but surprisingly strong, pervert who'd been convicted of raping, torturing, and murdering twenty-three women in Gotham. The Joker was... the Joker and he actually seemed the sanest of the bunch despite his frequent, odd giggles. Muhammad Robie was a gang banger who'd run the Carbon Street Killers and who was responsible for murdering several police officers - one with his bare hands. Patient 73321 was convicted of murdering her parents and three siblings with a hatchet.
Sitting cross-legged in the center of Cell 12D was a lonely figure.
Slender as a blade of saw grass, wearing a dirty, pale blue hospital gown was 73321. A tangle of oily, matted hair twisted like snakes and fell around the patient's waist; it had been so long since she'd had a proper shower that most of the staff had forgotten what color her hair really was under the grime. Frank dimly recalled her hair being a pretty shade of strawberry blonde when she'd first arrived. It was the restraints she wore on her face which never failed to make his skin crawl.
A white mask constructed of hard latex was strapped to the patient's head and locked in place; only Dr. Thurmond had the key and Thurmond had only allowed the mask to be removed twice in the eleven years Patient 73321 had been at Arkham. There was something both eerie and sinister in the lack of expression the smooth plastic held. Two holes for the eyes and a small gash for the mouth gave the impression Patient 73321 was related to little gray aliens.
Peterman shifted uneasily when a pair of blue eyes, as cold and dark as the Atlantic, locked unto his own gaze. "Hey, Mike, are you sure Gabe's gotta clean in there today? 73321 is giving us the eyeball again."
Mike Sanchez had worked at Arkham in security only a few years longer than Frank and none of the patients bothered him. He grunted and shrugged. "Thurmond wants her cell cleaned up so the nurses can get her presentable. Seems the new District Attorney wants to interview her."
"Are you kidding me?" Frank gaped at his partner. "Kennison must be a real nutcase herself if she wants to sit across from Lizzie!"
The staff, security and medical alike, had long ago nicknamed Patient 73321, Lizzie Borden. In fact, Frank had to strain to remember 73321's real name it had been so long since he'd heard it mentioned.
Mike snorted. "Nope, I'm as serious as death. I heard they're reinvestigating her case; seems 73321 has a new and improved public defender."
A bent old man, limping slightly, and pushing a mop bucket cut off Frank's retort. "Have you guys restrained, Miss Sunshine? I'd like to make this quick. One of the inmates on 4C puked all over the shower room."
The cells on 5D were spacious, possessing near hotel quality, in comparison to the accommodations the rest of the Arkham patients were afforded. Padded floors and walls with a small, well barred window that looked down into the exercise yard. Each cell also had a fairly high ceiling, a padded bunk bolted to the wall, a simple toilet and sink, and restraint mechanisms that could be lowered from the ceiling.
The walls and steel door were thick so that no sound escaped them unless the staff turned on the speaker system. Frank flicked a button and frowned at the static buzz which bloomed briefly before dying down. "Okay, 73321, we're coming in to restrain you. Gabe needs to clean your cell."
Even, calm breathing was her only response.
Frank relaxed as she slowly rose to her feet and held her arms out in front of her like some sort of peace offering. This meant that 73321 was going to cooperate; she had in no way verbally communicated she would, instead always extending her hands.
73321 never spoke - not once in eleven years, not to anyone, including her psychiatrist and the only visitor she received once a month like clock work.
Mike nodded in agreement and opened the door.
Frank took a step back as the stench hit him; it was the overwhelming stink only an unwashed human body could give off. Swallowing the bile pooling at the back of his throat, Frank straightened his back and strolled into the cell.
Mike followed, growling in disgust at the foul odor.
The pair made quick work of the patient and exited the cell.
Frank nodded at the old man; his eyes watering. "Whew! I don't envy you, my man. She's trussed up like a Christmas turkey - you have the all clear."
The hunched old man merely pushed the bucket containing his cleaning supplies into the cell.
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Gabe Norris was seventy-five and had worked at the asylum for over fifty years. He'd seen everything from patients rolling around in their own waste to the carnage left by Crane's fear toxin as the inmates and patients rioted and slaughtered one another.
Once, he'd been forced to clean up one patient's innards from the solarium on 3B after one of the paranoid schizophrenics decided that he heard radio signals from the devil broadcasting out of his friend's large intestine.
Gabe had seen a lot, but he'd never seen anything as sad as the young woman straight-jacketed and chained to the ceiling in cell 12D. She was a little thing, not more than 5'3" and maybe ninety pounds soaking wet; looking like someone's lost child. There she stood, letting her head fall back as she stood staring up at the grubby ceiling.
Sure, she smelled bad, but who wouldn't when you weren't allowed to bathe on a regular basis?
73321 spent the majority of her time either strapped to her bunk or wearing a straight jacket; she couldn't wash herself and the staff didn't exactly fight to help her out.
Gabe shook his head as he filled the bucket with water at her sink. "Don't worry, Sunshine, life has to get better. You'll see." He added a capful of detergent before grabbing his mop. "I hear your new lawyer is top shelf!"
73321 turned her head and let her gaze fall on him. Eyes the color of sapphire stared out from the blank white mask she was forced to wear. More often than not, her eyes were just as expressionless as the mask, but today there seemed to be curiosity swimming in those dark pools.
Gabe was aware he was probably the only person at Arkham who spoke to her longer than a few seconds; including her own doctor. "Now, old Gabe could be wrong, but I'm thinking if this new lawyer can get the District Attorney down here you've got some real hope."
He mopped around the cell efficiently before scrubbing her toilet and sink and changing the filthy pad that covered her bunk. Gabe tried not to take too long, he was well aware the guards in the doorway didn't approve of his compassion for 73321, but he didn't cut any corners as he scrubbed.
Perhaps she was a monster, Gabe didn't know, but he knew she was as human as he was.
She was a human being and she deserved basic human dignity.
Gabe Norris practiced this belief with all the patients and inmates; he was compassionate, he treated them as kindly as he could, and not one rude word had ever escaped his lips. So while some staff, and many guards, had been attacked - he never had so much as a finger laid on him by any inmate during his career.
He looked up to find her studying him. "Now, you keep your chin up, Sunshine."
Gabe was certain from the way her eyes had taken on such life; she was smiling under the mask.
Nodding, he gathered his supplies, storing them in the now empty bucket, and left the cell.
Sanchez and Peterman were staring at him as though a second head had popped out of his neck.
"How can you stand talking to her?" Sanchez asked bitterly. "She's a freaking, sicko murderer!"
"Killed her entire family with a damn axe!" Peterman pointed out quietly.
Gabe smirked. "Allegedly killed them with an axe, boys. Her new lawyer said on the news she was falsely accused and what if she was?"
The guards shared an uncomfortable glance before Sanchez shook his head. "If she didn't do it, I feel bad for her, but after eleven years in this joint she's probably crazy as a loon."
"Yeah," Peterman added bluntly. "I doubt she's ever getting out."
Gabe shrugged and began pushing the bucket down the dark corridor. "Maybe not."
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Sharon Kennison tapped her pen on the legal pad before her.
The conference room that Doctor Thomas Thurmond had provided for the interview was positively claustrophobic; a small square table sat in a musty, dinky room no bigger than a closet. Three of the four chairs were inhabited by Sharon, Dr. Thurmond, and Earl Finley, Chief Public Defender for Gotham. Two large, well muscled guards stood on either side of the door adding to the sense of uncomfortable closeness she felt.
"May I ask why, after eleven years, this case is being reviewed?" Dr. Thurmond drawled as he relaxed in the uncomfortable metal chair. "I think Gotham's public funds would be better spent assuring the Joker is institutionalized here for the rest of his days."
Earl Finley pushed his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose. "Dr. Thurmond, the Joker is also my client, and I will thank you not to make any preliminary judgments before he has his day in court."
"Of course," the older man replied suavely. "Please forgive me."
Finley shook his head. "Thank God my client has a different psychiatrist than Miss Quinzel. At least the Joker has a shot, which is more than I suspect Miss Quinzel ever had with you, Doctor."
Sharon cleared her throat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe we should behave as adults when Miss Quinzel arrives." She turned her attention to the man directly across from her. Thomas Thurmond looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ and not in the most dangerous lunatic asylum in the country. "I understand that Harleen doesn't speak at all, is this true?"
Thurmond inclined his graying head. "That is correct, Ms. Kennison. My diagnosis is that Harleen Quinzel is suffering from deep psychosis and possibly depression as well; although her blood work has never indicated any disparity in brain chemistry."
"I have a psychiatrist flying in from San Francisco and he believes based on the symptoms I described there is a chance Miss Quinzel is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. There is the very real possibility she witnessed the murders and didn't perpetrate them; which would make her the victim," Finley finished hotly.
"What a load of bunk… "
Sharon slammed her hand on the table. "Look, now is neither the time or place for this, gentlemen! I've been asked by Commissioner Gordon to review this case file because he felt this young woman did not receive a fair trial at the time. I'm willing to listen to each of you, but I will not be reduced to a referee, understood?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely."
She nodded and flipped open the file on Harleen Quinzel.
At the time of the murders, Harleen was sixteen years old. According to family, friends, teachers, and co-workers, there was no hint of mental disease or even unhappiness in the Quinzel home. Joseph and Colleen Quinzel were both bright, college educated, well adjusted individuals with what appeared to be a happy, loving marriage; Joseph was a Gotham detective paired with Jim Gordon, and Colleen was a math teacher at St. Mary's Catholic High School. Harleen was the oldest child, a bright, sunny girl involved in gymnastics and swimming, she had a high grade point average and wanted to go to college by all reports. The two younger brothers, Andrew and Patrick, were thirteen and eleven, both considered good, if mischievous, boys. Little Sabrina, nicknamed Bree, was only four at the time of the attack and the state of her remains had sickened twenty year homicide veterans.
Sharon had seen tragedies before - far too many to count, but this went beyond the pale. The crime scene photographs were horrifying and stomach churning to say the least. GPD Crime Scene Investigators had documented every shred of evidence to perfection and there was plenty of evidence to cast guilt on Harleen.
One photo of the girl showed severe abrasions to her arms and her hands were covered with thick, oozing gashes; the evidence would indicate both defensive wounds and those of a killer. Most murderers wielding blades never realized they themselves were going to be cut in the struggle over eighty percent of the time.
Harleen Quinzel could very well have murdered her family. But why? There was no logical, or even illogical, reason for such staggering violence.
Sharon remembered the grave, pleading expression on Commissioner Jim Gordon's face in their earlier meeting. She'd known the man nearly six years and had never seen him so upset...
... "I knew Harleen very well, Sharon. Jesus, she's my goddaughter! I'm telling you that this girl wasn't capable of violence."
The Commissioner sat quietly at his desk; his chair turned toward the wall so he could shift his gaze between her and the huge windows overlooking downtown Gotham. He seemed to have aged a decade in the few weeks since the Joker had been apprehended.
Sharon quirked a brow. "Jim, obviously you're very fond of this young lady, but she's been in Arkham for eleven years without any proof to indicate her innocence." She made her voice as kind as possible. "I believe you can know someone well and never see the madness beneath. Look at how badly the mob misjudged the Joker… "
"Harleen Quinzel is nothing like the Joker!" The anger in Jim's voice surprised Sharon and she jumped. He sighed and leaned back in his chair; wiping both hands over his face. "I'm sorry, Sharon, I'm a little on edge right now."
"It's understandable," she stated quietly.
Jim Gordon turned and faced her full on; the sincerity in his deep blue eyes pinning Sharon to her seat. "Look, I need your help here, Sharon, please. Just look into the case, okay? I failed this girl miserably, I failed her entire goddamn family… " he shrugged weakly. "Joe Quinzel was a brother to me, I loved all of them and so did Barbara. I couldn't do anything to clear Harleen's name when this tragedy happened, but I know in my heart she didn't do this."
Sharon shook her head and stared out at the Gotham streets. "People will say this is corruption and we're trading favors."
Jim chuckled weakly. "The press has been screaming corruption for years; this will be one of the few cases where they're wrong."
"Let's say Harleen is innocent and she's released," Sharon began gingerly. "Clearly, she has psychological issues now. Don't you believe a mental care facility is the best place for her until she shows some improvement?"
Jim dipped his head. "I won't dispute the fact Harleen will need help, but she can't be kept at Arkham. I'll find someplace else, a treatment program where she won't come into contact with psychopathic serial killers and mass murderers." He pushed his hand through his dark hair; the newly emerging silver strands standing out in the light. "I've received some disturbing allegations Harleen was… abused when she first arrived at Arkham. Just talk to Earl Finley at the Gotham Public Defender's office, he's taking up the case for me."
"Finley?" Sharon sputtered. "He's also handling the Joker's case."
"Will there be a problem?"
"I sure as hell hope not."
For the first time in days, Jim Gordon smiled. "Thank you, Sharon. Barbara and I appreciate you looking into Harleen's case."
Sharon Kennison stood and shook Jim's hand. "I'll do my best, but if Harleen is guilty, she's staying put."
Jim nodded briskly. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
"As long as we understand one another… "
... The door banging open brought Sharon back into reality.
Two guards shuffled in the door with a tiny woman trapped between them; the female prisoner was so lithe she reminded Sharon of a ballerina. As quick as possible the men shackled her to the closest chair which was bolted to the concrete floor in turn.
Harleen Quinzel, aka Patient 73321, wasn't a pretty picture.
Tangled, matted hair floated in knots around the woman's face; a face which was covered by a plain white mask, eerily reminiscent of a theater mask. Shadowed blue eyes, which held no expression at all, stared out at Sharon lifelessly. The mouth hole was a straight slit where a small amount of food and drink could make it through, but nothing else. She wore the standard gray scrubs Arkham assigned to all patients and little white booties designed to keep her feet from becoming cold.
Sharon had never seen anyone in such a state at the asylum - not even the Joker.
She blinked in shock before gazing at Thurmond. "What the hell is strapped to Quinzel's face?"
The Doctor, so highly esteemed in Gotham society, was flustered by the anger in the young District Attorney's voice. He shrugged casually. "Miss Quinzel was issued a face mask to protect the staff."
"Why?"
Earl Finley switched on his digital recorder and eagerly leaned toward his nemesis.
Thurmond pulled at his collar. "There was an incident and I determined the mask was warranted."
Sharon's face grew red. "Look, I don't enjoy being mindfucked, so just spit it out and stop trying to fill me full of bullshit, Dr. Thurmond."
"Miss Quinzel," Thurmond cleared his throat. "physically assaulted three guards and caused serious bodily injuries to all three men."
Almost as though on cue Sharon and Earl's heads snapped in time toward the ever silent patient at the end of the table. Disbelief was written on both their faces as they stared at the petite, fairy-like creature chained to her chair between two hulking guards.
Sharon began to scribble furiously on her pad; her hand flying across the page.
Earl Finley smirked at the pale, sweating psychiatrist beside him. "This is rich! Do you really expect anyone to believe this slip of a girl took on three trained, physically fit men and kicked their collective asses?"
"I have proof!" Thurmond countered hotly. "We documented the attack to protect Arkham from a lawsuit."
Sharon Kennison might have been the youngest DA in Gotham history, but she was also a shrewd prosecuting attorney; Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes had placed a great deal of responsibility on her slim shoulders and she had never let them down. Mayor Garcia, a calculating, but honest politician, had appointed her to take Harvey's place until a proper election could be held in a few months time. She intended to bust every scumbag from Arkham to the Narrows and back again if that's what it took to clean up the city and honor the memory of Harvey and Rachel.
"I want this proof of yours on my desk tomorrow morning." Sharon turned her attention to Harleen Quinzel. "Good morning, Miss Quinzel, I'm Sharon Kennison from the District Attorney's office. May I ask you a few questions?"
Harleen never moved, she didn't even appear to blink as she gazed at a fixed point beyond Sharon's shoulder.
Earl Finley leaned toward the DA. "May I?"
Sharon nodded. "Be my guest."
"Harleen," he began quietly. "Ms. Kennison is here to try and help you. Do you remember Sgt. Jim Gordon, your godfather?" It was well documented the new Commissioner had visited Harleen Quinzel the last Sunday of every month for the past eleven years; except during the Joker crisis.
For the first time, Harleen Quinzel stirred.
Sapphire eyes filled with wariness turned to her new attorney before flickering in Sharon's direction.
Finley had seen this reaction a few times before, once in Jim Gordon's presence. Smiling, he nodded at the woman across the table. "Jim Gordon has asked Ms. Kennison to assist me in trying to get you the hell out of here."
Sharon could see some sort of internal struggle going on in Harleen; it showed in those haunted, shadowed eyes of hers. There was stark fear followed by a brief expression of hope which disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived leaving only suspicion in those unsettling orbs.
Slowly, Harleen lowered her head so she was staring at the scratched, mutilated table top.
Encouraged, Sharon leaned toward her. "Jim cares so much about you, Harleen. If you could just answer a few questions… "
Without warning, Harleen Quinzel bashed her head against the table.
Sharon jumped back as heart-rending screams poured out of the now wildly flailing woman across the table. "What the hell?!"
Earl Finley was so startled he dropped his digital recorder on the floor.
Dr. Thurmond was on his feet, his own expression filled with incredulity. "My god! 73321 hasn't made a sound since she arrived - not even when she tried to tear out Phil Lakaski's throat with her teeth." He pointed at the uneasy looking guards. "Get this patient back to her cell and into a straightjacket!"
The guards struggled to unlock the patient's restraints and haul her up from the chair. For such a small woman, her ability to struggle was unparalleled. She seemed able to contort her body wildly as she resisted being dragged from the room.
Raw, emotional screams echoed through the room before slowly fading away.
Thurmond wore a self-righteous expression as he straightened the white coat he wore. "As I stated earlier, Miss Quinzel is highly disturbed. Her out of control behavior only proves her guilt… "
"On the contrary," Sharon interrupted angrily. "Harleen Quinzel's behavior only proves she is disturbed, not that she killed anyone. I want her records on my desk in the morning - and I mean everything."
Thomas Thurmond snorted. "Doctor - patient confidentiality."
Earl Finley flashed a grim smile at the older man. "Maybe that rule applies to Ms. Kennison, but it doesn't apply to me. I want my client's full clinical record as well as any surveillance records Arkham might have. I expect it will arrive at my office tomorrow no later than nine a.m."
"And if Mr. Finley doesn't receive the information," Sharon added sweetly. "I'll come down on your ass like a ton of bricks."
Thomas Thurmond turned wide eyes first on Finley and then on Kennison before sputtering, "Damn lawyers", under his breath. He promptly retreated from the room leaving the pair alone.
Earl Finley flashed a wide, pearly grin at Sharon. "Happy to have your help, Ms. Kennison."
Sharon walked slowly down the wide passage toward the reception desk. "Glad to be of assistance in this case, Finley. I wonder… "
When they reached reception, Earl signed out swiftly and handed Sharon the pen. "You wonder what?"
Sharon stared at the log book blankly. "I wonder what the hell Harleen Quinzel witnessed the night her family was killed."
"So you believe she's innocent?" Earl questioned eagerly.
Sharon signed out and turned her face toward him. "I'm eighty percent sure she didn't do it, but she's obviously terrified of someone or something. This is probably the first innocent client you've had, Earl."
He threw back his head and laughed. "Not really! We'll see how my other client holds up in court this summer."
"The Joker may be a madman, but he's not innocent," Sharon countered swiftly.
Earl smirked. "We'll see what a jury decides. I think without Batman hanging around, the Joker has a better chance at being released than you might think."
Sharon simply rolled her eyes in disgust as they walked out of Arkham together.