Update (2013): This chapter is edited for the benefit of future chapters, now that this story is off hiatus. Enjoy!
I took a taxi straight home after I gathered all the paperwork my clients will eventually need in the afternoon, finished my coffee, and accepted my disheartening fate for being given an impossible villain to catch. I spent the entire time in the taxi with my eyes trained on the passing apartment buildings out the window, not daring to look at the disconcerting grin paper-clipped inside the file.
The first time I saw the Joker's face up close was the night Batman disappeared.
He had seemed quite content hanging upside-down until we arrived, when officers had finally managed to get him off of the trap Batman strung up for the GCDP. I was with the rest of the SWAT team at the bottom of the building, waiting for an unexpected turn of events or more hostiles turning up to counter the capture of their boss. Moments later he was standing a couple feet away from me, tightly handcuffed and heavily guarded while transportation arrangements were being made. He let the police officers do the strenuous work when they began to drag him into the van, but for the most part he was calm, resolute in the way his coal-black eyes averted to mine. I remembered the way my heart thudded against my chest, the way I couldn't stop staring despite my temporary paralysis as his yellow teeth gleamed against his offset red smile. His laughter had sent a shrill jolt through me, and I had forced myself to blink a couple of times and look away to remove myself from the intensity of our exchange. Our stare was short-lived, but it disturbed and fascinated me.
The empty apartment's silence teased me with the promise of sleep when I walked in. Nevertheless, my obsessive tendency to veer on the borderline of insomniac and workaholic disallowed me dreamland for the time being. I had to replace it with work.
I dropped my keys on the kitchen counter and slung my purse over the back of the armchair closest to me. The file remained in my hand, flattening between my palm and fingers the harder my grip tightened on it. It didn't feel right, knowing I'd have to track him down and discover the Joker's intentions justto bring Batman back into the picture. No one knew how far he planned to go to get the vigilante to come out of his shelter of darkness, and I shuddered to think how many more deaths would be committed in the name of a man Gotham once looked to for safety. Crime appeared to slow its contagious disease over the half year Batman pulled himself out of the city's spotlight, and I had a feeling the Joker wasn't satisfied.
This was all a game to him—a minute pastime to unmask the hero of crime and burn the city to the ground all at once. He was the prime enemy to the city and villains alike because of his limitless capacity for chaos and power, and chaos was a special taste only the torturous souls like the Joker could revel in. We are his pawns, and his wasteful lackeys were the knights.
I made sure to slip into more comfortable wear before settling down into the sofa, fingers pressing into the Joker's file anxiously. Mere hesitation prevented me from being hasty and opening the file immediately. My hand moved from the top of the file toward the remote sitting on my coffee table. I needed some kind of background noise to drown out the inner turmoil of my thoughts and comfort me in my silent apartment. I was too perturbed to sleep properly at the moment, and my final case awaited me before I had any intention to sleep the remainder of the night away. A replay of Gotham City News' eleven o'clock headlines flashed across the TV, going over the story of the sudden Arkham Asylum breakout for the fourth time today.
"Fifteen criminals have escaped to the streets of Gotham. Their whereabouts are unknown to the press at this time. Among these criminals is the infamous Joker. Please know this man is armed and the most dangerous of the patients. The Gotham City Police Department advises you to walk the streets with extreme caution at all hours of the day. Though police reports conclude that the investigation on hunting down the Batman has reached a dead end, Commissioner Jim Gordon has a few words on the matter." A brief clip of a remarkably calm Commissioner Gordon appeared on the screen. My hands wrung together at the nagging thought of Jim mentioning me.
"The search of the masked vigilante has not ended. The police are continuing to pursue his capture, and I firmly believe only the Batman himself can bring this psychotic criminal to justice. Lead investigators are doing their best to discover the whereabouts of the Joker." He looked into the camera, face stern, eyes anxious about the clown's escape. "For now, we have to place our hope in the police force for the seizing of these criminals and readmitting them back to Arkham."
If there was one thing that became evident in Gordon's speech, it was that he certainly didn't intend, and never will, want Batman behind bars. It was too bad the impending demolition of the Joker was all to get Batman into the public eye once again.
As the anchorwoman went on to the weather forecast for the rest of the week, I turned down the volume on the television to a low chatter, planning to resume my newest assignment. The folder shook in my hands, palms trembling in excitement and fear. I pushed open the top fold, glanced at his mug shot, and began to read a bit of the contents of his analysis.
The pages documented at Arkham shows he has no known alias outside of his criminal name, which applies to the lack of fingerprint matches on file. I estimated he either burned his prints from his fingers or wiped his identity clean from any database containing his true origins. Among the psychological disorder section of the charts, the words sociopath, schizophrenic, multiple personality, sadism, and borderline personality were scribbled in a messy font across the top of the page. A small note in the corner of the page listed his typical preference of carrying knives over guns, alongside the physical deformities of the Glasgow scars he had become famous for. All of the notes were typical, something I could have assumed for any psychopath locked up in the asylum. None of the labels were out of the ordinary, or peculiar and unique for someone like the Joker. I flipped a couple pages in haste, desperately searching for something I could work with before I called a meeting tomorrow to discuss the case. A copy of his customized calling cards lay in the center of the doctor's notes, typewriter print painted in blood and glaring at me in the dim light of the lamp I had turned on for better reading. On the back of the card someone had written a comment about the Joker never staying in one place for too long, which sparked my interest a little, even though it was also predictable.
I closed the worn folder.
How would I be able to find him when I was obviously on the outskirts of obtaining information, especially when he moves locations as often as criminals getting moved in and out of Arkham? In his earlier days before the destruction became systematically fatal, he spent time scamming mob bosses, building up his power until he could play his knights, jacks and aces in the hole. I pondered over the thought of approaching the villains of downtown Gotham, attempting to persuade mobsters with a clean-cut deal. The idea instantly faded into failure. Too obvious.
I needed to be disguised, imperceptible—an entirely new persona apart from the trained professional I worked hard to become. I would be the opposite of the Violet I knew, black hair into blonde, blue eyes into brown. My appearance would contrast anything that had to do with professionalism and honor.
I needed to be a criminal through and through, something sweetly sinister and clever that not even the Joker would recognize me.
Within seconds, an entire plan started to unfurl inside my head.
The police force would need to be informed and a mass of paperwork required attention before my identity could take root in Gotham's underbelly. There was a fifty percent chance I could die attempting this, but it had to happen… I neededto do this, for the sake of Gotham's citizens and for the sake of my absorption in this case toward the man behind the greasepaint.
I was wired. My thoughts were running in a web of disordered pleasure and concern, and I found myself staring absently out window when I shut off the light pulled a throw blanket over me, too worn down to take the fifteen steps required to reach my bedroom.
My hand moved toward the raised flesh of my scar, fingertips trailing the length of the disfigurement until I dragged my palm over my rapid heartbeat.
If you can't beat the Joker, join him.