I am sad, joyous, and relieved to report that this is the second to last chapter. That's right, folks, one more to go.
Thanks for the reviews! You guys never fail to make me smile, but not in a carved, scary Joker way.
The results for the last chapter's question: five people would beat the crap out of Zsasz and damn the consequences, and eight would take the moral high road for various reasons.
In the broad daylight, Crane felt terribly exposed and out of place among his surroundings. No one in the Narrows, not even the people who had legal, paying jobs, wore suits; their meager salaries didn't warrant anything nicer than clean slacks. Accompanying the suit, he was clean-shaven—relatively, at least, considering he hadn't had time to grab a razor before leaving—his hair didn't make him look like a deranged hippy, and he didn't smell like a hog that had been bathed in cheap liquor. He would appear to every possible inhabitant as an outsider, and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.
"Maybe I should have done as Scarecrow suggested and let my hair grow a little. No, absolutely not. He might enjoy looking like something that stepped out of the 80's. I would not," Crane said to his own thoughts.
Schiff, pack slung over his shoulder, looked at the doctor. "Were you saying something to me?"
"No, I was considering the state of my appearance."
"Oh. What did you decide? Do you like it or don't you?"
"It's too conspicuous. How could I change my clothing so I don't look like an easy mark for any desperate addict?"
Schiff considered it for a moment, and then dropped his bindle. He walked around Crane a few times, getting to know every inch of the doctor's suit, and then stood in front of Crane like an artist surveying a blank canvass. Crane saw the look of deep concentration on the schizophrenic's face and regretted ever breaching the subject.
"Buttons. I can never button buttons the right way. The holes never match up right, but yours do," Schiff said.
Crane dropped his briefcase to free his hands. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and then, throwing out all self-respect, purposely slid the bottom button in the top slot. This gave his suit a ridiculously lopsided look. No sane professional would ever leave the house with his clothes in such disarray, but way-south-of-crazy was exactly the look Crane needed if he wanted to be passed over as just one more nutty but mostly harmless hobo.
"Everything's too clean," Schiff said.
"I'm not going to roll in the mud."
"You don't need to roll in it, just get a little dirty. It doesn't matter how much dirt you have, because most people don't have any at all. People who have dirt tend to get ignored by the people who don't have any."
Coming from Thomas, that was downright philosophical. Knowing he was going to hate it—but suspecting Scarecrow would have welcomed the chance to disgrace the suit and get down and dirty—Crane allowed his pet to gather two handfuls of slimy mud from a nearby gutter. He had to resist the natural urge to smack Schiff when the schizophrenic began smearing the mud all over him. Schiff took to his task with manic glee, and seemed to forget entirely about making Crane only a little dirty.
"Enough! More than enough!"
Schiff stopped plastering his boss with filth and stepped back to admire his work. Crane looked like someone who had been lost for a week in a swamp. Mud was chaotically splattered and streaked across his clothes, with the heaviest concentration coating his chest. Some of the wet muck had made its disgusting way onto his neck, and Crane wiped it off with his hand. Then he realized his hand was muddy and there was precious little clean fabric left to use as a towel.
"Good, yeah, that's good. Now nobody will want to look at you or come close," Schiff said, nodding his approval.
"You'd better hope so. Because if I am caught in this despicable condition, I know a certain schizophrenic who will be taking a trip to the morgue," Crane said.
"It's a good disguise, Doctor Crane. You don't look out of place now. You won't have to kill me."
Incredibly unhappy by how far he'd fallen from his glory days, Crane retrieved his briefcase and Schiff hoisted up his sack. They had quite a distance to go, and the longer they remained exposed, the higher the risk someone would notice the very dirty doctor and his tag-along. Intending to make the journey as quickly as possible, Crane led the way and stayed close to buildings and the obscuring shadows they provided.
While Crane did his best to appear inconspicuous, Joe did his best to stay awake until the ambulance arrived. He didn't want to greet the paramedics with snores, and he didn't want any of them to hurt their backs trying to lift his snoozing carcass. He wanted to thank them for their great service, thank the doctors in the hospital for their great service, and then pass out once said wonderful doctors broke out their various medical instruments of torture.
"I take it you don't want to be interviewed right this second," Montoya said, noting the way Joe's head kept nodding down and then jerking back up as he struggled to stay awake.
"Couldn't get much out of me, even if you tried," Joe replied.
Wishing she had a blanket to throw over Joe's shoulders, Montoya instead offered the cabbie a sympathetic pat on the back.
"Don't worry about it. I don't think you'll forget any major details any time soon," she said.
"I don't think I'll forget any of it, ever, for as long as I live," Joe said.
"I know how to make you forget," Zsasz offered.
Montoya glared sharply at the handcuffed killer. "Fifth Amendment. Invoke it."
Despite the pain in his shoulder from having his injured arm rudely restrained behind his back in such an intolerable position, Zsasz grinned up at Montoya. She almost recoiled in disgust but managed to hold her ground, even if she couldn't keep her face entirely impassive. The killer's smile affected the officer in the same way that the Scarecrow's laugh had affected Joe; what should have been a pleasant sign of happiness was warped into something inhuman and ugly.
"He's already been cut quite a few times, so what's once more?"
"Shut it!"
"I won't do it with cruelty, not like the good doctor did. Just one quick, clean cut and that will—"
Montoya pulled the Taser from her belt and stalked towards Zsasz. The look on her face suggested she'd much rather use her gun on him. The combination of the cop's scowl and her drawn weapon let Zsasz know he was in serious trouble. He quickly shut his mouth and placed his head back on the ground in a futile attempt to placate Montoya.
"Either of you have a problem with this?" Montoya asked, motioning at Zsasz with the Taser. She wouldn't do it if either Joe or Danielle voiced opposition—they might make a complaint against her and she wasn't going to lose her badge or face suspension because Zsasz pissed her off.
"Absolutely not. He's horrible," Danielle said.
"Go to town," Joe said. "I've always wanted to see someone get tased."
With permission granted, Montoya pressed the Taser against the killer's back. She told herself that he deserved it for what he'd done to Stephens, he deserved it for hijacking the taxi and threatening its occupants, he deserved it for the murders he'd gotten away with. Her finger tightened on the electroshock gun's trigger.
"What'd the son of a bitch do now?"
Montoya looked up to see Bullock, Benson and another officer she couldn't immediately pin a name on. All three cops were glaring at Zsasz with evident distaste. Though she wasn't going to ask, Montoya was relatively sure none of the officers would mind if she ran a few thousand volts through the psycho's body. If anything, Bullock looked eager to join in.
"We came to collect that," Bullock said, poking his finger in Zsasz's direction. "But before he goes anywhere, I want to know what he did."
"He threatened to kill me," Joe said.
"Offered, not threatened," Zsasz amended, as though the semantics made all the difference in the world.
"Yeah, that's all we're gonna hear out of you, buddy. Let's go," Bullock said.
Benson and the unnamed officer yanked Zsasz to his feet. The killer was compliant as they started to lead him towards the newly arrived squad cars. He knew there was nothing he could do, restrained and weaponless as he was, against four well-armed police officers. He would certainly have savored the chance to kill each and every one of them, but it was not to be.
As he was being marched away, Zsasz called back to Montoya, "I'll remember your face, detective. I hope to someday have the pleasure of cutting open that lovely brown swan neck of yours."
Bullock's punch took Zsasz down without fuss. The psychopath collapsed to his knees, his head lolled, and his entire body went limp. The only thing holding him up was the two cops gripping his upper arms.
"That's no way to speak to a lady," Bullock said, and cracked his knuckles. His hand throbbed and ached like he'd just punched a brick wall, but he wasn't going to let on to that little fact.
Zsasz was unceremoniously dragged to a waiting cruiser. He was thrown into the back like a particularly fetid bag of garbage and the door was slammed shut. Benson and his fellow officer exchanged a high-five and several encouraging words before going their separate ways. Benson stayed behind while the other cop took his place in the driver's seat. With no fanfare, the car sped off.
"Harvey?" Benson asked.
"What do you want?" Bullock responded. He was rubbing his bruised knuckles, and grimacing.
"That was awesome."
"Thanks, kid. Now why don't you stop pestering me like the parasite you are and go and see if Montoya needs any help?"
Being smart enough to see Bullock wasn't in the mood for company—and was probably looking to damage his remaining fist on the next person who pissed him off—Benson trotted off to see if Montoya needed anything. Considering all she had to do was wait for an ambulance for her rescued hostages, Benson's assistance wasn't really needed. She let him loiter around, anyway.
Despite his lack of Irish ancestry, Benson had exhibited the gift of gab from an early age. He felt a compulsive need to break the silence. His recent near-death experience made his usual urges to strike up a conversation with anyone in the vicinity even stronger. He'd been forced to realize he wouldn't be around to yak forever, and his yakking days might be numbered in the single digits for all he knew. If he theoretically could be killed at any moment, he had to make the best use of breath while he had it.
"So, what happened to you guys?" Benson asked Joe and Danielle.
"Too tired for a recap," Joe said.
"Scarecrow happened to us," Danielle said.
There was no way that answer was going to satisfy Benson. He sidled closer to Danielle and pressed for scrumptious details.
"I've never experienced this myself—I'm really curious though—but did he use his fear gas on you?" Benson said.
A shiver ran through Danielle's body and she could feel the blood drain from her face. Considering the last time she'd tried to explain her ordeal she'd burst into tears and pawed at Montoya, she figured just a tremor and a little paleness wasn't too bad of a reaction. She then wondered if she'd ever be able to recount the Scarecrow's sick treatment without showing an outward sign of distress. Maybe, months or years from now, while discussing her captivity with a sympathetic Oprah.
"Yes, he used it on me. He had a liquid version that he gave to Joe," Danielle said.
"A liquid? Like he made Joe drink it?" Benson asked.
"No, he injected it."
"Like with a needle?"
Danielle didn't think there was any other way to inject something into someone. She replied, "Yes, like that."
"Holy crap, that scares me already," Benson said. He was uncomfortable around needles because, just like most things he either feared or hated, they reminded him of bees. The bee's stinger, more specifically.
"And what happened after he gave you the gas?"
"It's impossible to describe. I could tell you what I saw—blood, all over the Scarecrow and Joe and everywhere—but the fear was so intense I couldn't handle it. I was screaming, and I think I almost lost my mind. It was like my worst nightmare, but so much more horrible than anything my brain could ever think up on its own," Danielle explained.
Benson's worst nightmare had occurred not long after the bee attack at summer camp incident. He'd woken up, shrieking and slapping himself, sure that an entire hive of bees had invaded his room and were stinging all over his body. Over a decade later, he could still recall the dream vividly. He couldn't begin to imagine how much worse of an experience fear toxin would cause.
"I don't want to find out first hand, do I?" Benson asked.
"No."
"Alright, I won't ask you any more about fear gas. I really don't need anything else to give me nightmares, not after that whole Zsasz incident," Benson said.
"Who exactly is Zsasz? We saw him yesterday, back when Joe was driving to the Scarecrow's hideout, and he had a knife then, too. Why is he running around, attacking people?" Danielle asked.
Living in Seattle, Danielle had limited news about what was going on in Gotham. Of course the Scarecrow's initial attack on the Narrows had made world-wide news and the Joker's string of robberies, assassinations and terrorist attacks had left the entire country shaken, but she'd never heard any reports on Zsasz. Grandma Sophia and her many phone calls had been filled with cheerier topics by and large—jazzercise, who had found a sixth husband, what scandal Bruce Wayne was up to (Danielle believed her grandmother was a little too involved in Wayne's personal business)—and serial killers weren't often included.
"I don't know much about him, but from what Jerry—that's my partner and Zsasz stabbed him, the asshole—told me, he was a hitman for the Mob. He was good at his job, but he got caught, tried, and got off on the insanity defense. One guess who his doctor was. He escaped Arkham and obviously he's been killing a whole lot of people. It's going to be a blast, digging through unsolved homicide archives and trying to match his MO to dead homeless people," Benson said.
"Don't you have any tact? She doesn't want to hear you complain, especially not about dead homeless people," Montoya reprimanded.
"Yeah, I guess you don't need to hear stuff like that. Um, who do you think will win the Super Bowl this year?"
Montoya moaned. Where in the hell was that ambulance? If it didn't get there soon, she was going to do something drastic to Benson. Like Taser him.
As though sensing Montoya's growing chagrin at its lateness, the ambulance's flashing lights appeared at the end of the street. Montoya waved it down and the vehicle quickly came to a halt.
A pair of paramedics hopped from the back of the ambulance. One immediately went to Joe, who hardly appeared conscious, and the other hurried over to Danielle. Benson stepped out of the EMT's way and stood back to watch the proceedings.
"I want to thank you for your great service," Joe said to the paramedic that stood over him.
"I appreciate that. Now, where does it hurt?"
"Where doesn't it hurt would be a better question," Joe replied.
"Sense of humor isn't broken, that's good to see. Now, any head, neck, or back pain?"
"I headbutted the Scarecrow and almost knocked myself out, so there's definitely some head pain, with a little neck pain thrown in."
"I'll make sure they check for any signs of a concussion once you're at the hospital. I don't think you've suffered enough head trauma to warrant a backboard, so hold tight while I get the gurney," the paramedic said.
"No, I can walk," Joe replied.
The paramedic couldn't have raised his eyebrows any higher if Joe had claimed he could walk on water and heal the blind.
"I don't think you should, even if you can."
"I want to and I'm going to. Now help me up."
Ignoring his better judgment, the paramedic extended a hand to Joe. The cabbie grasped it and, with support, wobbled his way to the ambulance. Despite the EMT's doubts, Joe was able to step up into the back of the ambulance and lay himself down on a stretcher.
Danielle, accompanied by her paramedic, entered the ambulance a few seconds later. She had far less trouble getting aboard than Joe had had. Once she was situated, one of the EMTs pulled the doors shut and the ambulance rolled out, its lights flashing but its piercing siren mercifully silent.
"We made it, Joe. I can hardly believe it, but we did," Danielle said.
Joe made no response. Despite his desire to stay awake long enough to thank the doctors who would be treating him, he'd succumbed to exhaustion. He was sleeping peacefully and there was no way Danielle would disturb him.
Didn't that chapter just make everyone feel warm and content inside? Yeah, nice.
For any non-US readers, the Fifth Amendment of the US Constitution says a person can't be forced to testify against himself in court. He can choose to "remain silent".
Random question of the chapter: bees, needles, or a pissed off Detective Bullock. Which is scarier?