Thank you all for the reviews!

Here are the results from last chapter's question: Schiff and Ringo get one vote, Benson gets three, and both also gets three. So the write-in candidate ties for the lead.

In other news, I know I made this announcement before, but this time my brain's not going to decide to birth a major sub-plot. I swear. This story is almost over. This will be either the second or third to last chapter. So, depending on how it goes, one or two more chapters.

The crippled taxi, its rear tires flat and thumping against the pavement, rolled to a slow stop. Montoya sprinted for the taxi, her gun drawn and aimed at the driver's side door. She was not about to risk giving Zsasz another opportunity to run for it. The chase the killer had led the detective on was perhaps the most harrowing pursuit Montoya had ever experienced—Zsasz was like a rabbit, darting through the warren of the Narrows with incredible speed and agility—and she wasn't sure if she could get him cornered again.

"Put your hands out the window! Let me see your hands!" Montoya ordered.

Nothing inside the cab moved. Montoya slowed her pace from a full run to a creep. She had no idea what the situation inside the cab was—Zsasz could have already murdered whoever was inside or he could just as easily be holding them hostage—and moving in too quickly might do more harm than good. Startling the killer would only make him more unpredictable and violent.

"Last warning, Zsasz, hands up!"

"Detective, I can hear you fine. No need to shout. I'm afraid I can't put my hands up; they're a little occupied, you see."

Off the top of her head, Montoya could think of several hundred things Zsasz could be doing with his hands that would violate the law. Hoping whatever his busy hands were up to wouldn't constitute a capital offense—homicide, for instance—Montoya inched closer to the driver's window. She saw the killer's back was to her, but his body blocked Montoya's view of the rest of the cab. The cop couldn't see what Zsasz's hands were doing, or what the state of any passengers might be, unless she got even closer.

Deciding it was worth the risk, Montoya stepped closer, perhaps close enough to be in range should Zsasz suddenly turn around and bristle the knife at her. She could now see over the madman's shoulder and into the interior of the taxi. Instantly, the cop saw what had occupied Zsasz's hands: it was the two passengers' hands.

As soon as the car had come to a halt, Zsasz had turned on Joe and Danielle. He'd had little choice in who his hostage would be—one passenger was sitting on top of the other—but he'd been quite pleased with his luck nonetheless. The police officer who was now standing just outside the cab was a woman, and being presented with a female hostage would hopefully affect her. Girl power and female unity could be twisted against the modern woman given the proper circumstances.

Zsasz's plan to throw Montoya off by threatening Danielle had been derailed, however, when Joe intervened. As the killer had reached for Danielle, Joe had made his move. He'd grabbed the killer's wrist, holding him back. When Zsasz tried to cut off a few of Joe's fingers and force him to let go, Danielle had followed the cabbie's example.

Even with the effort split between them, Joe and Danielle were not having an easy time keeping Zsasz under control. Joe was forced to use only his good hand, putting him in an awkward position to begin with. Danielle had to contend with the carving knife that, she had noticed, was streaked with fresh blood. Their handicaps excluded, the man they were trying to restrain was simply strong. Zsasz could give two completely healthy people a difficult time, even in a fair and balanced fight where he wasn't allowed to leap from the shadows like some sick ninja.

Montoya wasn't going to stand there and force Danielle and Joe to hold Zsasz indefinitely. She calmly walked the remaining distance to the car, pressed the muzzle of her gun against the back of the killer's head, and told him to either drop the knife or bid his gray matter adieu.

Wisely, Zsasz decided to keep his brain intact and inside his skull. He opened his hand and the knife dropped out. Joe's maimed hand batted the blade onto the floor. Despite the pain moving his horribly injured hand caused, the cabbie was not taking any risks. The night had been enough of a satanic rollercoaster and Joe was more than ready to get off.

With Montoya keeping her gun trained on him the whole time, Zsasz was forced out of the taxi. He'd been arrested before and knew protocol well enough: face down on the ground, hands behind the back, don't anger the arresting officer into tasering you. He couldn't say he wasn't disappointed when Montoya slapped cuffs on him, but at least he'd been prepared. He'd also had his fun—plenty of it, more than he'd had in ages—so he'd have good memories to occupy him.

"Will you read me my rights, detective?" Zsasz asked. "If you don't, I may escape justice on a technicality."

Montoya glared at the cuffed killer. She didn't want to give him his Miranda Rights—she didn't believe he deserved the protection of any human rights—but if some grease ball lawyer made a fuss, Zsasz could theoretically walk. If that happened, Montoya didn't want to imagine what she'd do. It would probably get her kicked off the force and possibly earn her a stay in a comfy jail cell.

"You have the right to remain—Holy hell, what happened to the two of you?"

"That's a new line. I don't remember that particular phrase—"

"Shut up, Zsasz. You two, come here. Oh my God."

Joe and Danielle had emerged from the taxi, and Montoya got her first clear look at them. As they approached the cop, she was able to see the full extent of the damage Scarecrow had done to them. Montoya was as appalled as she was confused. Questions immediately sprang to mind, but she'd ask them only after she'd called for an ambulance and for someone to come and collect Zsasz's ass.

After radioing in her position, letting everyone know Zsasz had been apprehended, and requesting medical assistance, Montoya headed for the beaten duo. The female half of the pair didn't seem to be hurt too badly—there was some blood on her chin reminiscent of a split lip and she looked exhausted—but the male half looked like he'd gone slogging through hell. Montoya had no idea how he'd picked up the peculiar injuries he bore, but she intended to find out.

"Who are you two, and what happened?" Montoya figured being blunt would work best.

Instead of giving an answer, the pair fell on Montoya. For a brief second, she thought she was being attacked. Then she realized she was being hugged, and vigorously.

"Officer, I've never been so happy to see a cop in my entire life. Thank you, you're a wonderful public servant, oh, I think I love you," Joe said.

"That's wonderful, thank you, but please tell me who's hugging me," Montoya said.

Instead of getting coherent names, Montoya discovered what it was like to be a Kleenex at a funeral. The people clutching her began to cry on her shoulders and what might have been coherent answers became blubbering, unintelligible bursts of words. The cop tried to comfort Joe and Danielle as best she could, though it was hard, considering how they had attached themselves like lampreys to her.

"Whatever happened to you, it's over. You're safe now, and if you can tell me what's going on—"

"The Scarecrow! All night, needles and poison and my demonic grandmother and a freaking scalpel!"

"I was just trying to get to her birthday party! She's 80 years old! And then there was this horse in the middle of the road!"

"And the mask had a bug for a tongue! Jesus Christ, I wanted to puke. It was there, wiggling, like a maggot."

"He pulled my hair so I couldn't run away. Then there was gas, and I saw blood everywhere!"

Montoya tried to glean something succinct from the random, bizarre exclamations. It was like trying to identify individual pieces of debris inside a powerful tornado. Words were flying by so fast, and with seemingly no cohesion, that the officer was left confounded. Obviously something traumatizing and horrible had happened to these two, but pinning down anything concrete was next to impossible.

"Alright, alright, everyone has to calm down and take turns speaking. I can't understand either of you if you're both shouting at once," Montoya said.

Joe and Danielle were kind enough to take their hands off the confused cop. They both took deep breaths, and then Joe gave Danielle the stage. He figured she'd be more articulate—and would swear quite a bit less.

"Last night, I got off a flight from Seattle. I flagged down a taxi—Joe's taxi—and he was driving me to see my grandmother. She turned 80 yesterday, and I missed her party. We were pretty close to her house when this guy on a horse showed up right in the road and Joe almost hit the horse. The cab spooked it and it ran off, so its rider needed a lift. The rider was the Scarecrow, and he kidnapped us. He made Joe drive to his secret lab or torture chamber or whatever the hell it was. And he did things to us," Danielle explained.

"Experimented on us, drugged us, cut me with a scalpel. Bastard shot me, too," Joe added.

"So the good doctor's still practicing. Is he the same self-righteous little—" Zsasz said, only to be cut off.

Montoya said, "You have the right to remain silent. Use it."

Turning back to Joe and Danielle, who had composed themselves much better, she said, "You're telling me you spent the night being abused by the Scarecrow, is that right?"

"Absolutely," Danielle said.

"Sums it up," Joe said.

"And you survived, both of you, mentally intact. Incredible."

"We were just as surprised as you, actually. Now, if you don't mind, officer, I need to sit down before I fall down," Joe said.

The cabbie lowered himself to the ground and knew he wasn't going to be getting up without assistance from paramedics. His energy reserves were gone, completely and truly. If the Scarecrow had walked up to him at that point, Joe wouldn't have had the strength to flip him the bird. Fighting with the knife-wielding screwball had burned through Joe's last drops of energy, and now he was in a state of total mental and physical exhaustion.

"Are you going to be alright, Joe?" Danielle asked.

"Tired," Joe muttered.

Montoya realized she still didn't have names to pin on the pair of survivors. The man's first name was Joe—asking his surname could wait—but she didn't know the woman's name. The officer decided asking now that things had calmed down would be a good idea.

"Me? I'm Danielle Kaminski. I've got my driver's license if you want to see it," Danielle said.

"Danielle…Kaminski. Granddaughter of Sophia Kaminski?" Montoya asked.

Danielle's jaw dropped open. "Yes, I am, but how did you know?"

"She came into the police station several hours ago, waving around her cell phone, and telling everyone in earshot her granddaughter had been kidnapped. She had the text message to prove it."

"I love you, Grandma, I love you."

"We'll get you two reunited as quickly as possible. She can meet you at the hospital, as soon as we figure which one you'll be heading to. Since Gotham General's out of commission for at least another six months, several smaller hospitals have been picking up the slack. It can make things chaotic, though," Montoya said.

Having given Danielle good news, Montoya figured Detective Stephens could probably use some, too. He'd been originally assigned the task of finding Danielle, and now that she was found, he could let go of that burden. The less stress he had weighing on him, the better off he'd be.

Several blocks away, Benson removed his radio from his belt and placed it next to Stephens' head. The injured detective listened to Montoya's message, and then broke into a grin. Hearing that his job was done, the missing woman had been located alive and well, and that tenacious grandmother of hers would be able to cool down and not frighten any more cops was the best news Stephens could have gotten. Hearing earlier that Montoya had handed Zsasz's ass to him hadn't been too shabby, either.

Benson took his radio back and informed Montoya that she had made Stephens a very happy man. A few seconds after Montoya disconnected, the radio came to life again. It was the last third of Stephens' phone hunting party. The pair of detectives that had managed to miss all the action finally felt like calling in to report where they'd been: lost. Apparently, neither of them knew the Narrows from the streets of Moscow. They'd remained quiet because begging for directions while Stephens had been having a knife stabbed into him had seemed distasteful. Now that Stephens was knife-free and his attacker was lying in the dirt, securely cuffed, the two wayward officers had finally informed everyone of their shame.

"You know, we could have used your help," Benson said to the embarrassed detectives.

Bullock snatched the radio from Benson's hand. "If you didn't know where the hell you were going, why didn't you tell someone? When I get through with you, you'll never want anything except desk duty for the rest of your careers! Do you hear me? And people accuse me of being a bad cop! I ain't gotten lost once!"

While Bullock chewed the unlucky detectives out, Benson looked down at Stephens. His grin had faded—it was quite hard to maintain happiness when iron claws of agony dug into you—but he looked alright. Not great, not perky or chipper, but alright. And Benson thought alright was encouraging.

"Ambulance ought to be here soon, Jerry. Any minute now. Always assuming the driver's not as clueless as Gary and Marcus," Benson said.

"If the driver's as clueless as those two morons, he'll crash off a bridge and into the river. You damn better hope he's got half a brain, at least," Bullock groused.

The ambulance driver did have a fully functioning brain and made his approach known with whooping bursts of sirens. Benson heard the wailing first—his ears were the youngest and sharpest—and he informed everyone of its imminent arrival. Bullock muttered that it had taken long enough. Inside, he was eternally grateful the ambulance was nearly there. He wanted nothing more than to put Stephens' life in professional hands.

A few minutes after the initial sound of sirens, the ambulance appeared on the street. It was closely trailed by several squad cars, each looking to provide backup that was no longer needed. Whether the extra officers were needed or not, they were more than welcome, anyway. If nothing else, they could rescue the lost and helpless Gary and Marcus.

A pair of paramedics emerged from the back of the ambulance. Bullock stepped away from Stephens with a look of pure gratitude on his face. The EMTs set to work, making sure there was no risk Stephens would bleed to death should they attempt to move him. After they were satisfied the detective was stable enough for transport, they carefully lifted him onto a gurney.

"Jerry, wave like the injured football players do," Benson suggested. Bullock discreetly slapped him on the back of the head.

Stephens, as he was being loaded into the ambulance, managed to bring a hand up. Benson and Bullock returned the gesture, though there was no mistaking the dirty look Benson shot Bullock.

"As soon as we're done here, I'll be at the hospital. I'll be there as long as you need me. I'll sleep on the floor in your room if they'll let me," Benson said.

"They won't let you sleep on the floor but they might let you have a chair. And tell whoever's waiting for the second ambulance that the ETA's about four minutes. We'll take good care of him, officers," one of the paramedics said before swinging the door shut.

The ambulance sped away, lights flashing to warn all motorists to get the hell out of the way. Once it was out of sight, Bullock turned to Benson.

"Four minutes should be long enough to teach Zsasz a lesson."

Benson hesitated, but for only a second. "No, Harvey."

"Just a quick one? Knock a few teeth out, break an arm or two?"

"As much as I want to, no."

"Damn it."

Yeah, I realized I had originally mentioned six cops—two in each of three squad cars—and two of them basically disappeared. Bad writer, bad! So here they are, closing a plot-hole. Poor forgotten fuzz…

Anyway, random question of the chapter: suppose you were in Bullock's position. Would you beat the crap out of Zsasz, or take the moral road and only imagine you were beating the crap out of him?