Chapter 3:
That initial session, and the three which followed afterwards, Dr. Harleen Quinzel felt quite sure were the most frustrating experiences of her life. The Joker had laid there in utter silence, not speaking a word over the entire duration of the hour, not a single utterance of any kind and yet, he never diverted his gaze, never looked away from her. It was, at once, both incredibly aggravating and incredibly unsettling.
At first she tried speaking to him in great quantity, asking questions she hoped might inspire him to converse with her. She thought that he was perhaps bored, that maybe he had heard these same questions asked a hundred times over. And so, she attempted to become creative, tried to follow a line of mentally stimulating and unusual lead-ins. But nothing seemed to work. By the third such session, Harleen felt at her wits end. If she couldn't even get him to talk, then there was no hope of keeping him as her patient. Joan explained that The Joker had similarly treated his last, several doctors, and that most of them had quit within the first two sessions, purely out of frustration. Dr. Leland ventured that The Joker had grown restless and bored at toying with yet another psychiatrists mind, and that the silence was his way of dealing with that disinterest. The older woman's explanation, however, only served to frustrate and depress Harleen further. She needed The Joker to open up if she were going to successfully achieve her goals, and so far, it was looking like she was on the road to anonymity, along with every other schlub doctor who had rolled through there.
But while Dr. Quinzel stewed in her own disappointment over what she perceived to be a complete failure, The Joker found his time with her was proving extremely fruitful.
She was decidedly unaware of him studying her, of that he was certain. She felt the reasoning behind his silence was to force her, early on, in to quitting as his therapist. But The Joker had far grander schemes in store for Dr. Quinzel. He found her such an amusement, her air of pretension, and he knew he had to break her, break her in a way he hadn't yet broken anyone. She was special. So full of confidence and feelings of self-importance, so determined to succeed, to move away from the pack and distinguish herself from the rest. But he knew it was merely a mirage, that secretly, beneath it all, she was a frightened and repressed child, totally deplete of self-assuredness, feeling the unbearable weight of needing to prove herself as someone of actual value. He listened and watched, assessing nearly half a dozen truths about who she was from her presentation alone. The way she spoke in even and measured tones, the way she put so much effort in to masking that thick, east cost accent of hers. How she nervously tapped her pen against her note pad when feeling flustered, or how her breathing grew heavier when she felt unsure, her chest rising and falling just the slightest bit more rapidly and with greater pronunciation. The way she wore her blonde hair, so professionally done up in that silly bun, and those absurdly oversized, black rimmed glasses perched upon her nose, not because her blue eyes needed correcting, but out of a desire to look sophisticated. He could tell so from the way she would tip the things forward, far enough for her to see over the top when she looked down to read. And that ridiculous uniform she wore, with its grey sports jacket, tight, white blouse and short, black skirt, coming to an end just above her knees. The thickly healed stilettos on her feet, black, scuffed velvet, and the fake leather briefcase she held under her arm and sat next to her side. She wanted so badly to be accepted, to be lauded; to be regarded as a sterling example of what was considered societal success. He could see it all. She had given herself away to him so quickly. And he wanted very much to make her in to something so totally opposite of what she hoped to be. To make her in to a person scorned and feared by the very system she strived to flourish in; to turn her in to a reject and a deviant. The moment he had laid eyes on her, through the bars of his cell door, that first day nearly four months previous, he had seen the curiosity rise up in her, and he knew then she would campaign for his assignment, and he had decided at once she would be his. That he would make her his slave, utterly devoted and loyal, so that he and he alone would become the center of her universe. Indeed, he had realized, he wanted to make her love him. And he would. He knew he would.
Harleen felt her brow furrow, and she pressed the tip of her pen hard in to the paper of her notepad, swirling aimless lines about the page. It was now 35 minutes in to her fourth session with The Joker, and as in the previous three, he had said nothing, hadn't so much as acknowledged her presence, save for his ceaseless staring. She was beginning to believe he would never speak to her, and that she would have no choice but to step down as his psychiatrist. She sighed, breathing out despondently at the thought.
"Harlequin."
Her head snapped up, jarred from its heavy state. She saw The Joker, looking at her.
"E-excuse me?" She stammered, struggling to regain herself.
"Your name, Dr. Quinzel." The Joker again spoke. "If you would remove just five letters from your name, it would become Harlequin. Like the 16th century clown servants of Commedia dell'arte."She was shocked, at first by the sound of another voice in the room, and then by the quality of the voice itself. He spoke in just above a whisper, the softness of his timbre the kind that might lull its listener to sleep, and every word spoken was articulate and pronounced; treated and delivered with delicate care. Not at all what she had imagined him to sound like.
She stared for a good moment, steadying her breath.
"I've heard that before." She finally managed, praying she sounded more confident then suddenly she felt.
"Perhaps it is a sign." He answered.
She shrugged, attempting to appear blaze about the whole thing.
"A simple coincidence is all."
The Joker shook his head just slightly. "No. I don't believe so."
She waited, anticipating he might come back with some further explanation, but he had gone silent again.
"May I ask why it is you've now chosen to speak?"
The Joker shrugged.
"The moment was apropos."
"… And how did you come to that conclusion?" She ventured further, hoping to keep the momentum.
"Because I felt it." He said quickly.
She went quiet then, debating with her self what her next step should be.
"You know, Dr. Quinzel, you're quite pretty." He suddenly interrupted her thoughts and she felt a wave of surprise and embarrassment wash over her. That wasn't something she had anticipated he would say.
She struggled to regain herself, fidgeting and looking away. She wasn't sure of how to respond. She wanted strictly to remain professional, and felt that accepting such a compliment would be somehow unethical. Yet in the same instant, she feared that failing to acknowledge it could anger him, and he would again refuse to speak. She couldn't afford for that to happen.
"Thank you." She at last managed, her voice coming out in a shaky breath.
"Don't sound so unsure of it Doctor. It's true! I never say such things unless they're well deserved."
Dr. Quinzel had been warned of The Joker's unfailing charm. She rationalized internally that he was merely attempting to manipulate her, but she couldn't help it as a small smile crept up on her lips. She quickly rid herself of it and looked at him somberly.
"Mr. Joker, I would like to keep the focus on you." She insisted.
"As you wish." He didn't protest. "But please, just Joker will suffice."
"Alright then. Joker." She accepted. "Do you have a real name? I've noticed in your case file that you're listed as "unknown"."
He grinned at her, and she noticed how straight and large his teeth were, and how their whiteness nearly matched that of his skins.
"Joker is my real name Dr. Quinzel."
He spoke so quietly she felt certain she may fall asleep just listening to the sound of his voice.
"You must have been born with another name?" She argued. "They haven't been able to identify you. There's no public records, no tax documents, no forms or papers matching to your fingerprints or linking you to any previous person or life. The only records they do have are the ones which have been collected since you first came here. Do you know why that is? Did you… Did you purposefully live your life in anonymity so that one day you could become The Joker?"
He stared at her intently for a long moment without expression, before a wide smile spread across his face, coming up nearly half way along his cheeks.
"My previous life is unimportant. I am The Joker, and that is how you should regard me."
His words may have indicated impatience and demand, but his tone was nothing but pleasant, cheery even. He didn't sound angry. Dr. Quinzel felt relieved.
"Well, I'll certainly address you by whichever title is available, though the doctors on staff are encouraged never to refer to their patients as anything other then their legally given names as it…"
"Reinforces their delusional tendencies and their dependence on psychosis induced alter-egos by validating said alter-ego's existence" The Joker cut her off. He spoke smoothly and with confidence.
Harleen's jaw hung ajar, taken aback by him supplying her with her own answer, sounding like one of her former University professors.
He laughed lightly. "Text-book talk my dear. I know you're smarter then that. As I said, I am The Joker and no other name need be given. I will converse with you on the basis that I am shown a modicum of respect. You willingly and obligingly referring to me by whatever name I ask of you, and by no other, would not go unappreciated."
Harleen was struggling to not show her surprise. The man sitting before her was speaking in a genteel and civilized manner. She felt as though she were engaged in a pleasant and cordial conversation, taking place at some dinner party, thrown by Gotham's social elite, not conducting a therapy session with an unpredictable, uncontrollable mass murderer whose shackled body served only to remind her of this fact.
"Alright then." She said. "Joker it is."
He smiled. He smiled a lot, she noted.
"So," She began again, "you haven't been receiving therapy treatments for several months."
"Oh, I know!" He spoke with an energetic flair. "I feel so neglected! So unwanted!" And he then covered his face for dramatic effect.
"Do you know why that is?" She asked.
He put his hands up as though clueless.
"Budget restrictions?"
Dr. Quinzel nearly laughed, but somehow suppressed the urge. The last thing she wanted was to compromise her professionalism, which she felt certain laughing at his jokes would accomplish.
"The last psychiatrist you had before me was nearly eight months ago." She said. "He and the three before that all quit because you refused to speak to them."
The Joker nodded, a thoughtful expression coming across his face.
"They weren't very interesting." He said.
"But I am?" Dr. Quinzel ventured.
"Oh, but of course!" The Joker exclaimed. "Perfectly interesting."
"How so?" She wanted to know.
"Well, just look at you!" He said, his lips turning upward in to a sly smile. "You're so attractive, I can't help but take notice; and, of course, your persistence. The last two quit after only two sessions, but you my dear, you stayed the course, here for three and a half! And who knows!? Maybe you would have kept coming back, even if I hadn't said a word. It seems to me you posses the sort of compassion necessary for really helping the socially inept and renounced." His grin widened and he stared at her with big eyes.
She looked away. The truth was, she had been on the verge of throwing in the towel, just before he had spoken. She was contemplating in her mind whether she should just stand up, end the session early and tell Dr. Leland she had been right. The only reason she hadn't done so earlier wasn't because she actually cared, but because she felt determined to get what she came for. She felt, coming in to Arkham, that almost every patient there was as hopeless a head case as they came, and there was no real sense in trying to help any of them. But, she figured too, she may as well cash in while she had the chance.
The Joker could see, from how tensely she held herself, by the small furrow of her brow and the way the lines about her mouth had shifted, that she had been intensely agitated and on the brink of ending the whole thing. And he had waited for just that moment to say anything. He knew the timing was important, in planting a sense of hope and in stroking her ego, making her feel special because, unlike his last four doctors, he had actually chosen to speak with her.
"You do care, don't you doctor?" He asked, injecting a kind of hopeful plea in to his voice.
"Of course I do!" She answered hastily, snappishly, sounding insulted. "It's the only reason I would be here."
"Liar."
He could tell from the response that she was deceitful, and from the emphasis she put in to it that she was feeling a sense of guilt. He knew then her motives for being there were selfish, and he wanted all the more to destroy her. He fought to keep from smiling.
"Pathetic, ugly thing."
"That's good." He said, sounding dejected. "I get the feeling from a lot of the doctors who've treated me that they don't really care at all." He almost mumbled the last bit, like a child sulking, before looking at her with narrowed eyes, a contemplative expression on his face.
"But you're not that kind of person Harlequin, I can tell."
Just then the door to the room opened, and Richard and John entered. Harleen watched as they unshackle The Joker and pulled him to his feet.
"It was good talking with you Dr. Quinzel." The Joker winked at her as they were turning him away, towards the door, and she stood in silence as they pushed him through.