Interlude I
It's the devil's way now; there is no way out
You can scream and you can shout
It's too late now
-Radiohead, 2 + 2 = 5
I blink.
The light in the interrogation room is harsh and fluorescent, putting a sickly yellow-gray cast on the entire area and everyone inside. Granted, I felt ill long before I arrived here, but this light is not helping.
I'm not cuffed, but frankly, I might as well be. The revolving door of cops popping in to interrogate me has certainly made me feel like a criminal.
I'm facing the third cop in a row—grizzled, heavyset, and belligerent. He squints at me, and calmly, he asks, "So how does the Joker usually get in touch with you?"
I exhale sharply. There's a headache swelling behind my right eye, and once again, the light is not helping. "I already told you," I say tonelessly—I've already wasted my wrath on the two cops that preceded him and all that's left now is a weary resignation. "I was stopping for coffee on my way out from the university. I didn't realize what was going on until I was already inside and it was too late to get out. I ran into him by accident."
"Then why'd he let you go?" the cop demands. "By our count, this is the second time you've been released—unharmed, I might add—from a hostage situation orchestrated by the Joker." He pauses, waiting for a response, but I don't have one for him, and he knows it. He lets the silence stretch, getting some kind of morbid pleasure from this, letting his point settle in, and then raises his eyebrows. "Y'know, most people are lucky just to survive one encounter with that freak. Twice is unprecedented."
"Batman's done it," I snap. I know I shouldn't get cranky, but I'm in pain and I feel sickened by the events of the day, and I do not want to deal with this at the moment. I just want to go home and sleep.
"Are you Batman?" he snarls.
"Do I look like a six-foot flying rat?" I demand.
"Well, if you aren't, then there's only one other group I can think of that routinely gets out alive with him, and those are the clowns!"
"If I was a clown, why would I call you? What possible reason would I have to alert the police if I was working with him?!"
"Covering your tracks. Forming a solid alibi."
"No," I say, narrowing my eyes. "It's because I want to save people, if possible at all."
"You still haven't given an answer. Why did he let you go alive?"
I throw up my hands, hunch my shoulders, and cry out, "I don't know! I don't know his motives any more than you do! He's completely insane; I can't tell you why he decides to do what he does!"
"Well, then, gimme your best guess," he challenges.
I sputter wordlessly for a moment, one hand waving uselessly as I try to rise to the demand. "I… I don't know, he likes to mess with people's minds, right? Maybe he knows that your department would suspect me, wants to make my life difficult."
"Then we're back to personal interest," he declares, brows rushing down, thick furrows forming in his forehead. "So what interest does he have in you?"
"I don't know. I don't know," I repeat, slumping in defeat. "If I say it again, will you believe me? I have no idea what he wants or what he's doing. I'm being jerked around, just like you are."
He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but his radio goes off. The fuzzy voice on the other end is indiscernible to me; I can't focus long enough to make sense of it, but he apparently understands, picks up the device, mutters a curt response, and then shoves his chair back and gets up, stalking out of the room.
I throw my elbows on the table and bury my head in my hands, knitting my fingers in my hair and letting it stream down around my face and shoulders. When did I make the transition from victim to suspect? I wonder with a soft groan.
The door buzzes open, and I look wearily up, expecting another interrogator. I find a young man instead, lean and dark-haired, clean-shaven and guilty-faced. He carries a Styrofoam cup, and he hurries over and sets it on the table in front of me. "I brought you some coffee," he says, and I swear, he blushes. "I—I thought you might need a pick-me-up."
I watch him warily, but reach out and accept the drink. "Are we playing good cop, bad cop?" I ask. "Cause that works for me. If you're the good cop, you can stay."
He looks around nervously. "Ah… not exactly. I'm not even supposed to be in here, to tell you the truth."
"Oh." I sip the coffee. It's not the greatest I've ever had, but hell, at least it's hot. "Well, then, why are you here?"
He gestures aimlessly. "I, uh… I felt kind of sorry for you, y'know? You've already been through a lot, and now this whole interrogation thing… it seems like they're making you run a gauntlet here, and I'm not so sure you deserve it."
I smile wryly. "What, you don't think I'm just a not-so-cleverly-disguised Joker lackey?"
"No, I don't," he says firmly. "And I don't think they do, either. Not really. They're just…" He draws a hissing breath in through his teeth, clearly struggling to express himself. "They're frustrated. He keeps slipping through their fingers, and they hate that. They're trying really hard to find something they can hang on to."
"So they grasp at straws and turn on his victims?" I shake my head. "Even for desperate men, that's far from a reasonable solution."
"I didn't say it was right," he says quietly. "I'm just trying to make sense of it for you."
I shake my head and chuckle humorlessly. "Thanks. But it's still nonsensical."
"I know," he says.
The door buzzes again and he jumps a mile, lending credence to his declaration that he really isn't supposed to be here. A slim man with a gray mustache and impressively rumpled hair enters and regards the young officer. "Eli," he says in warning.
"Yep, I was just on my way out," says Eli, quickly scooting past his superior.
"Thanks for the coffee," I say as he disappears through the door.
The slim man sits opposite me, and as he does, I realize that I recognize him. He's been on TV increasingly often in the past few months. "Commissioner Gordon," I say, offering that recognition to him warily now. I don't know how to feel about him just yet. He has a certain look in the lines of his face and the light of his eyes, a sort of weary kindness, but he's still a politician of sorts, and he's the head of the corrupted department that has been making my life hell for the past few hours.
"Miss Vane. Let me apologize," he says immediately, startling me. "I just got in from the diner scene. I had no idea that they'd been holding you here. They shouldn't be keeping you like a criminal; it was definitely the wrong approach."
I blink. I didn't expect this. What do I say in response? I can't tell him that it's okay; that would be a flat lie. Still, I'm grateful, and I find my tongue. "I appreciate that," I say, very quietly. "Thank you."
He nods. "I hope you can understand the reasoning behind it, though. For the Joker to take an interest in an average Gotham citizen… well, it's…"
"Unprecedented," I say for him. I'm beginning to get tired of that word. He nods again.
"And worrying," he adds. "For you to survive two encounters with the man, it's… it's got the guys nervous. They think you have to be in cahoots with him somehow." I try unsuccessfully to smother a laugh, but he notices despite my best efforts, lifting a questioning eyebrow. Laughter isn't appropriate right now, I remind myself, but it's still nice to know that I remember how.
"Sorry. You said 'in cahoots,' that's all. I don't hear that phrase very often; it just tickled me," I explain, feeling foolish. Get a grip, Emma.
His mustache twitches. Nice to know I'm not the only one clinging to my scant sense of humor, as sinister as inappropriately-timed humor has become in Gotham. He pulls it back easily and continues as though I hadn't interrupted, though—"Can you think of anything, Miss Vane, anything at all that could have sparked this interest?"
I show my palms. "Commissioner, with respect to the department's theories about me and him, I'm still not sure he has any kind of interest. Our encounters have been completely accidental, as far as I can tell, unplanned by either of us. I'll grant you that the second time was a huge coincidence, but coincidences do happen." I shrug. "What're you gonna do?"
He nods, but I can see from his expression that he's not buying it, not really, and his next carefully-chosen words confirm it: "Running into him, maybe. But the Joker treats the citizens like his personal cannon fodder in the war against the city; there are eight fresh bodies out there tonight that prove it." I flinch at the mention of the diner victims, the people who had been locked inside and blown apart before the police could help. Gordon speaks gently, clearly conscious of the survivor's guilt beating a tattoo across my mind. "For him to run into you twice and let you go almost unscathed… well, it does indicate some kind of interest, even though I'm sorry to say it."
I have no response to that. He watches me for a moment before clearing his throat, signifying that he's about to push further into the unpleasant topic.
"The first time you encountered him…" He hesitates, clears this throat again and looks down at the table. He's rubbing a scratch on the cold metal, pressing his thumb into it as if he can polish it away. "You reported that he'd bitten you."
"No." The word rises from my mouth, unbidden, but I see where he's heading and my entire mind recoils from the thought. He looks up, startled, and if I'm not mistaken, he looks almost… ashamed. Chagrined might be a better word. He doesn't want to talk about this any more than I do, and I find that I like him a little better for it.
"No, he didn't bite you?"
"No… I mean, he did, but…" I feel a hot flush rising to my face, doubtless blotchy and ugly beneath the freckles and pale skin. "It wasn't… it's not what you're thinking."
"Miss Vane." His face is apologetic, but he presses on, this time holding my stare. "I understand how uncomfortable the thought must be making you, but among men with his pathology—antisocial, and violently so—biting is often characterized as sexual behavior."
It's suddenly very hot, and I'm feeling immensely embarrassed and uncomfortable. I want nothing more than to curl up and hide from this discussion, but it's not possible, so I force myself to keep it together. "I didn't get that impression at all. I think he was preying on my fears—right before, I'd mentioned my worry that his thoughts were turning towards…" My throat seizes up; I realize that I can't say it.
Gordon doesn't make me. He's not a psychologist, this isn't a therapy session, and I get the impression that he doesn't want to hear the thought voiced any more than I want to voice it. "Understood. But you see where I'm coming from—he's kept you alive. It speaks towards some kind of partiality, a… an attachment."
I shake my head violently. "I don't think so, Commissioner. I… well, think about it, can you really see him adjusting his plans to accommodate some sort of… preference he may have for me?"
He looks at me. I can see in his eyes that he does think so, he thinks it's the only possible logical thread running through this harebrained mess. Simply, quietly, he asks, "Can you think of any other explanation?"
Something's rising from my stomach to my head, dark and violent—revulsion in its purest form. I fight it, and a voice that's too strangled to be mine emerges from my mouth. "He's… he's playing with me now. Twisting me. I have no doubt that if he wanted me… in that way… he'd have gotten what he wanted by now. I… I think he's playing a sort of idle game, if anything, and Commissioner, let me tell you, I'm scared."
He looks at me, then picks up his radio. "Bring some water, please." He puts the radio down and reaches across, patting my hand. I know my distress is obvious; even if he'd made no move to comfort me, I can feel it in my face and hear it in my voice. I take a moment to rein myself in as the door opens and one of the cops that questioned me earlier comes in, surly and silent, and sets a bottle of water on the table in front of Gordon.
The Commissioner pulls his hand back, pushes the water over to me, and waves the other cop out of the room. I twist the cap off and drink, feeling a touch calmer.
Gordon waits for the officer to leave before speaking again. "Do you live with anyone? Have any family close?"
I shake my head as matter-of-factly as possible—I'm already making a fool of myself; I don't need a pity party from him. "My parents are dead. I have a great aunt, but she's too old to trouble with something like this. Besides, she lives in Nebraska and I'm here on scholarship—if I mess up and go home now, I lose my ride."
He nods, looking pensive. After a moment, he nods once more. "Well, Miss Vane. If you're lucky, this will be the last time you run into the Joker."
"But," I say, sensing more.
"But," he allows, "I have to say, I don't think it's likely. You woke up in your own home after the first encounter, is that right?"
"Yes." My throat is thickening again. I take another sip of water to distract myself.
"Which means he knows where you live." Gordon appears to reach a decision. "Here's what I'm gonna do, and with any luck, this will be mutually beneficial—I'm going to have the department keep a close eye on you. Cruisers rolling past your apartment to check every half hour or so, plainclothes police officers nearby when you go out. If the Joker tries to go after you again, then with luck, we'll catch him."
I can see in his eyes that he doesn't really believe it, and I'm not sure how I feel about being tailed around town by Gotham PD. Then again, Gordon's the leader of the department, and he seems to have a good head on his shoulders, at least. This way, at least I don't have to shy away from my own shadow.
I nod slowly. "It's probably the best idea."
"Well, then." He offers his hand; I shake it hesitantly and express my thanks. "I'm sorry for what you've been through, Miss Vane. If we're lucky, then we'll nip this thing in the bud. Even if he doesn't get caught, maybe seeing the heat on you will make him lose interest."
Maybe. Maybe not. I figure that Gordon has dealt with the Joker more than I have, knows more about how he operates. If he's going to expend resources trying to protect me, then I'll accept them with gratitude.
