It's 3:00 AM. I'm tired. Good thing it's spring break. I'll reply to the previous reviews later...I'm just so tired.

But please review, anyway!

Chapter Five

Interviews

Friday 8:15 P.M.

Later that evening, I returned to my office, dressed casually (and comfortably) only to find Bruce Wayne, fidgeting in his seat. He seemed extremely nervous about something, but was trying his hardest to keep it discreet. His attempts were worthless…I could see right through his façade. But I was never the type of person to deliberately embarrass someone, so I let him continue his acts of eccentricity without uttering a word. Unfortunately for me, my efforts to interview him were shoved to the side. He claimed to receive an important phone call during my departure from Wayne Enterprises, and he had to leave immediately. Perhaps that would explain his edginess.

"Is it really that urgent?" I asked him, pleadingly.

"Helena, I am extremely sorry, but I have to go. It seems as though there's an emergency in one of the labs that they want me to report to right away. If I could, I'd stay, but you know how things are…" For some reason, I didn't believe him. I could have sworn he was lying to me, and perhaps he was.

"Technically, I don't know how things are…I've never gotten the chance to interview you about it," I crossed my arms while raising an eyebrow to him.

"Soon, I promise. I know you're irritated with me—"

"Whether you know it or not, Bruce, I'm capable of having even the smallest inkling of patience. I know you're a busy man. Just remember that I'm also a busy woman. I can't just reschedule you whenever you want. Call me when you're available, and I'll see what we can do."

He stuck out his hand for me to shake, something I found compelling at the time. I received it warmly, though, and smiled graciously. "You have no idea how much I appreciate this. Don't let me forget that I still owe you dinner."

I chuckled. "Go on…get out of here." He looked at me fleetingly for a moment and left my office. I watched him shut the door run down the hallway through my glass windows.

Sighing, I sat down at the desk. My dossier was sitting there open and ready for me to research the Joker even further. It seemed as though it had a mind of it's own, dragging me towards it, tempting me to begin my investigation. It howled in excitement for me to commence my exploration of answers and inquiries.

Without hesitating any further, I pulled one of the papers out with a list of phone numbers. One name and number stuck out to me: Dr. E. Thompson, a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum who was fired for inappropriate behavior. If anyone in the medical profession were to help me, it would be him. I quickly picked up the phone and dialed his number. It began to ring and continued three or four times before someone answered.

"Dr. Thompson."

"Yes, hello. My name is Helena Bertinelli. I'm a reporter with the Gotham Gazette. How are you today, sir?"

"Fine, thank you. What can I do for you, Ms. Bertinelli?"

"Well, sir," I stated, hanging up the receiver after putting it on speakerphone so I could take notes, "I'm doing some personal research, and I was wondering if you would be kind enough to divulge some information."

"I guess it depends on what you want to know. I've heard your name before—read your articles. You're not that bad of a writer."

I laughed. "Thank you, Dr. Thompson."

"What do you need info on?"

Sighing, the name quickly flowed from my mouth. "The Joker."

The other end of the line was silent for a time. I could hear him breath in shortly before he began to speak. "You've put me into a sticky situation. He was a client of mine, and that's where the rules of patient confidentiality apply."

I nodded to no one in particular. "I understand if you can't disclose anything with me."

"You didn't let me finish. Those rules only affected me when I worked for Arkham Asylum. They fired me, as I'm sure you know, and also my practicing license was taken from me. The rules of patient confidentiality are no longer relevant." I nearly fell out of my seat when he said this. "You won't find a birth certificate, social security number, license—anything. Not even his real name. He did have an alias, though: Jack Napier. It's the only name he would disclose to the workers at Arkham." I quickly jotted down the name.

"Any documents under Jack Napier?"

"That I don't know. You might want to discuss it with the police."

"One crucial question that I have: do you think he was insane?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. It was apparent that Dr. Thompson was thinking long and hard about this question. "No…no, I don't think he was insane. I believe that he was in Arkham simply to avoid the death penalty."

"So…he knew what he was doing when he killed all those people."

"Yeah. He did it for the pure fun and pleasure of it. Great guy, huh? It may just be my opinion but even if he is insane, he still deserves the death penalty."

I raised my eyebrows. "I can't blame you for thinking that."

"He never really liked talking about his murders."

"Was he ashamed?"

"I don't know. I guess that's what makes it so disturbing. His first murder was in plain sight: middle of the day amongst a crowd of people. Every murder afterwards was at night with no witnesses. If you ask me, he is either afraid of getting caught, ashamed, or he doesn't have a conscious. If that is the case, then he truly is insane."

I wrote down the notes as fast as possible. He was a fast talker. "Does he have a psychological profile?"

"That's usually developed by criminal profilers. But while working at Arkham, I tried to pick out consistencies with his murders. Needless to say, I didn't expect him to get out anytime soon. But since I lost my license, I refused to turn any of my information over to the police. I'd be more than glad to email it to you." At that point, he grabbed a pen and a piece of paper while I gave him my email address.

"Dr. Thompson, I really appreciate you taking time to discuss this with me."

"No problem, Ms. Bertinelli. I hope I was of some help to your cause. Take care." With that, we both hung up our phones. I tried organizing my thoughts of what just transpired. Thompson was convinced that the Joker was sane. Considering the time frame the Joker's murders were committed, they were pre-meditated. He put thought and preparation into each one, individually. It sent my blood boiling.

I looked down at the list of phone numbers and crossed out Dr. Thompson's name. Next up: Detective Jim Gordon.

Friday 9:45 P.M.

Jim just hung up his phone before walking out onto his porch. He had a long day, wrapping up any last minute details on the Daniel Ashman case before the FBI stormed through the yellow tape, forcing everyone to leave. Including the police. Just a few moments ago, a young woman by the name of Helena Bertinelli called, asking about the Joker. He had seen her before—at the charity event. Although he didn't talk to her, or anyone besides his commissioner and those in the police department, he had read her articles before…both those she had written and the ones written about her. She was a diligent reporter and wouldn't take no for an answer. And it seemed as though she was already connected to the mysterious serial killer.

For the past hour, she drilled him with questions regarding the Joker: who he was, if Jim had met him, talked with him or was associated with him, the criminal's past, his tendencies, if the police had developed a psychological profile, and so on. Gordon gave her as many answers as he could before hanging up.

It had been a long, long day.

He pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket and contemplated lighting it. It would calm down his nerves, at least. Reaching into another pocket, he retrieved his lighter.

"I didn't take you as a smoker." Looking to his left, Batman stood at the corner of Jim's porch, leaning against a post.

"Old habits die hard," Jim replied, putting the lighter back in his pocket. "I'm no longer working on the Ashman case, or any other case involving the Joker, if you didn't hear."

"I heard. The FBI really knows how to get in the way."

"It's just as well. The GCPD hit a dead end with this one. There's nothing else we could have done."

"I can't give up on it, Jim."

"Then you've decided?"

The Batman paused. "Helena Bertinelli—smart, passionate about what she does…a good canvasser. It seems as though she already has a personal vendetta against this guy." A smile crept up on Gordon's face as he slowly shook his head. Eventually, it turned into a deep cackle.

"Well…you'll never guess who gave me a call, asking about the FBI's involvement with the case. I'll give you a hint: she's a good canvasser."

Batman scrunched his eyebrows before a smirk suddenly twitched on his face as well. "She's already hassling you?"

"Just now, she called me asking questions about the Joker. Batman, she's got a head start on it. If I were to recommend anyone as a researcher, it'd be her. Hell, I don't even know her and I'd still suggest her."

"Good to know, Jim. You should get some rest—you like halfway dead." Batman began to turn around, ready to exit Gordon's property before the Detective stopped him.

"How do you plan to get her to help you? I seriously doubt Helena's the type of girl to do whatever some stranger in a mask tells her."

Batman contemplated the answer. He didn't know Helena enough—especially as someone parading around in a costume. He could instill fear in her, but like Gordon said, she wasn't the type of girl to be afraid of him. He looked at Jim and shook his head, not knowing the answer to his question…at least not yet.

"Mind if I give you some advice?" Gordon offered. Batman remained silent, offering the Detective to continue. "She might be willing to help you as long as you help her in return. 50/50. I can think of one thing she'd want more than anything else. Justice."

"And what justice could I offer her?"

"Do you even know the real reason why she's doing this?" He shook his head. "Bertinelli's convinced that the Joker killed her family a while back: every last one of them, save for a cousin in Italy somewhere. She's Italian, so of course her family was large: 32 of them killed, all in the same night and place. There just wasn't any proof to pin the Joker down. He didn't leave his calling card—the manner in which they were killed was completely different from his other murders. If you want this girl to help you…you need to find out who did it and why. Otherwise, she's no use to you."

In a flash, the sound of a whipping cape was heard. Jim glanced to his left and the dark knight was gone. Gordon had grown so used to his sudden disappearances that they no longer fazed him. "Screw it." Without another moment's hesitation, he pulled out his lighter and began smoking his cigar.

Friday 11:45 P.M.

My boss normally considered me obstinate or insane. I was never really intimidated by him, so that's generally why he left me alone. There were some days when I stayed at my office until the break of dawn, working on cases that had been completed long ago. Being a perfectionist was something that I never could prevent. It was a part of me that I dreamt would lead me to my greatest achievement. Or, as Ricky always said, "Would kill me because I'm too damn stubborn."

Regardless of his constant warnings and criticisms, I put in all-nighters at the office on a regular basis. Last month, I finally got the courage to purchase a couch and sit it next to my desk, just in case if I ever needed to take a catnap while working. When Ricky found out, he about blew his top off. I just smiled and laughed. Never really understanding why he always got upset when I stayed the night, last week I had an epiphany. While I was at work, laboring on my articles, I was getting paid overtime. I received my paycheck at the beginning of this week and screamed. Literally.

So, with some my extra cash, I bought an alarm clock to keep in my office. Just in case if I did catch a few 'z' s, at least I could wake up for work on time.

I received Dr. Thompson's email and decided to print it out and place it in my research file. The printer in my office was temporarily out of order, thanks to some empty ink cartridges (I supposed the remainder of my overtime pay would have to cover that). I walked out of my office and, with a spare key, entered Ricky's. Sitting at his desk, I logged in and began to print my email before something caught my attention. I looked on his desk to see a cassette. There was a label on it, but was blank. I scrunched my eyebrows, not recalling a time when Ricky recorded an interview. It was so unlike him not to label it, if that were the case.

The email quickly printed out and I walked back into my office trying my hardest not to let my thoughts linger on the tape. Absentmindedly, I shut the door behind me, studying my email message. I shivered at the coldness of my room while reading.

I shivered. I don't shiver in my office. My window was open. I didn't recall opening my window. Slowly, I looked up to see Batman standing in front of my desk.

It was all I could do not to scream.

Sorry for the cliffhanger. Once again, I'm tired. Sorry for any mistakes. Review please so I can be all...happy and stuff!