"Good morning, Mr. Napier," said Harleen, as a guard escorted Jack into the therapy room the next day.
"Good morning, Dr. Quinzel," he said, taking a seat on the sofa and smiling at her.
"You want him secured?" asked the guard, reaching for the cuffs.
"Thank you, that won't be necessary," said Harleen, holding up her hand to stop him. "You can leave us. There are guards monitoring the security cameras in case there's trouble, but I don't think there will be any, will there, Mr. Napier?" she asked.
"No, ma'am," he replied, still smiling.
The guard left them, shutting the door. Harleen leaned back in her chair, turning to a fresh page in her notebook. "So I heard from Dr. Leland that you requested this transfer after hearing Chuckie sing my praises," she said. "You're hoping I can make the same progress with you?"
"If anyone can, it's you, Dr. Quinzel," he said, nodding.
"No Harleen today?" she asked.
"No, I was very disrespectful of you before, ma'am, and I'm sorry," he replied. "I acted like an idiot around a pretty girl – I ain't the first guy to do that, but I apologize all the same."
"I appreciate your apology, Mr. Napier," she said, taking out her pen. "So…why do you think you do the things you do?"
"Why do you think I do them?" asked Jack.
"No, this isn't how this works," said Harleen, looking up at him sternly. "I ask you a question, and you give me an answer, not another question. You're an intelligent man, Mr. Napier – I want to hear your theory about why you're a criminal."
"It's not a theory - I'm good at it, and I enjoy it," replied Jack, shrugging. "Can't ask more out of your job than that, can you, Dr. Quinzel? Oh, and money I guess, but the pay's good too, so no complaints there!" he chuckled. "I'm sure you feel the same about your job, but I'd wager mine pays better."
"If money is all you care about, it probably does," agreed Harleen. "But most people also crave a sense of purpose and the satisfaction of a job well done."
"I get that from my job," said Jack, nodding. "You gotta do a good job as a criminal or you'll end up dead or in prison. I guess my last heist wasn't a job well done, which is why I'm in here," he chuckled. "And of course, there's the thrill you get from committing crimes."
"I was just speaking to a kleptomaniac about that same thrill," said Harleen, writing something down. "I told her I thought she was using that thrill as a substitute for real intimacy. There were emotional connections missing in her life, and she filled the void with the thrill of these dangerous crimes. I'm betting you don't have any real emotional connections in your life, Mr. Napier."
"You mean a gal or something?" asked Jack. "Nope, I'm free as a bird."
"I never could have guessed," said Harleen, sarcastically.
"And I've never been the kinda guy who needs a gal," continued Jack. "Or emotional validation from anyone. People are disposable – there are a lot more where they came from."
"So you've never felt the need to feel special to anyone," said Harleen.
"Nope. Have you?" he asked. She glared at him again. "Sorry, you ask the questions," he said. "I'm just used to a little give and take in my conversations. It helps me relax if I don't feel like I'm being interrogated."
"I think everyone wants to feel special to someone, deep down," said Harleen. "And a lot of our impulses are driven by that, even if we don't realize it. I mean, there's the rare psychopath who genuinely doesn't, but I haven't decided if you're genuinely psychopathic or not, Mr. Napier."
"I've been told so," replied Jack. "It's probably another reason why I'm good at my job – I automatically disconnect from the people I have to hurt. I lack empathy, or so other shrinks have said."
"How many shrinks have you had?" asked Harleen.
"Oh, lots," said Jack. "I've been in and outta prison from an early age, and there was always some shrink there thinking they could cure me. Never worked though, so I guess I came to consider myself as incurable."
"But you think I can cure the incurable?" she asked.
"Well, like I told Doc Leland, Chuckie talks like you're a miracle worker," he said, shrugging. "Might as well see what you can do."
"And if I somehow could reform you, what do you see yourself doing with your life?" asked Harleen.
"Well, settling down, maybe," he said. "Finding honest work and a nice gal…"
"Who you're somehow magically going to emotionally connect with, even though you can't empathize with people?" asked Harleen.
"She'd have to be a special gal, you're right," said Jack, nodding. "Someone who could overlook or understand my lack of empathy, a shrink maybe."
"If you can't empathize with people, you're probably incapable of loving people," said Harleen. "And nobody, not even a shrink, is going to stay with a guy who can't love her."
"Well, it's not confirmed that I can't empathize with people," said Jack, shrugging. "I mean, I haven't so far, but maybe I just haven't met the right person to awaken those kinds of tender feelings in me. Maybe my lack of empathy is because I'm afraid of making myself emotionally vulnerable to others."
Harleen put her pen down. "You're a smart guy, aren't you, Mr. Napier?" she asked. "You know fundamental psychology, and you're trying to play me at my own game. You've seen so many shrinks that you think you know how this game is played, you think you know what we want to hear, and you think you can predict the answers that will best manipulate us. You're currently attempting the 'you're the only one who can understand me' gambit, which is a classic ploy among all kinds of unsavory and emotionally manipulative men. Trying to paint yourself as a poor, misunderstood victim who needs saving, which often works on kind, compassionate people."
"Oooh, very nice," said Jack, smiling at her. "I like a smart dame."
"Trust me, I can see that game a mile off," retorted Harleen. "Men have been trying that one on me my whole life. I'm not stupid enough to think I can save anyone, because people ultimately have to save themselves. So I won't fall for that one, Mr. Napier, but feel free to try another."
Jack grinned. "Oh, I like this," he said, leaning forward. "It's no fun when the shrinks are gullible – give a lot of 'em the abusive father, absent mother sob story and they're putty in your hands. But you're sharp, Doc."
"I am," agreed Harleen. "You won't be able to play me, so you should give up now."
"I like a challenge," said Jack with a smile. "But now it's your turn. What kinda game are you gonna play on me to try and entice me into telling you something real about myself?"
"I don't have to play games, Mr. Napier," retorted Harleen. "Nobody's going to be surprised if your rehabilitation proves unsuccessful, so if you don't cooperate with me, I'll just tell Dr. Leland there's nothing I can do for you. I can just certify you sane and send you back to Blackgate, like Dr. Bartholomew wants."
"You're right – you have the upper hand," agreed Jack, nodding. "And you don't have to play any games with me. But don't you want to?"
"No, I don't," replied Harleen.
"It's the only way I'll play along," said Jack. "And it's the only way you're getting any kinda truth outta me. You can't tell me you can resist that."
"You're not that irresistible, Mr. Napier, as hard as that probably is for you to believe," said Harleen. He just smiled at her, leaning back on the sofa and folding his arms across his chest. "But I suppose anything's better than just sitting in silence for an hour," she sighed, picking up her pen again. "Have you always liked games?"
"Oh yeah," said Jack, smiling. "Ever since I was little, I could never get enough of 'em. I treat everything in my life like a game, and crime is an especially fun game that I enjoy playing."
"And when people get hurt, is that a game to you?" she asked. "Maybe I can get confirmation of that psychopath diagnosis."
"Sometimes you lose pieces playing games, like chess," retorted Jack. "It's a shame, but that's the nature of the game, isn't it?"
"So you actually are as cold and emotionally distant as you pretend to be?" asked Harleen.
"That's your job to figure out, Doc," he retorted. "I'm an unsolved mystery, and people just can't resist that."
"I think you have an overinflated sense of your own ego," said Harleen. "You think too much of yourself, and Chuckie thinks too little. If you could somehow share a little of your self-worth with each other, you'd have a perfectly balanced, normal human being."
"Being normal is overrated, Doc," replied Jack. "As I'm sure you know."
"You don't think I'm normal?" asked Harleen.
"I know you ain't," he replied. "That's why you're stuck here, isn't it?"
"I'm a doctor, not a patient, Mr. Napier," she retorted.
"You're an intern," he corrected. "And you're still stuck here. I'm betting this isn't how you saw your life panning out, but you haven't done anything to change it. And that seems unusual for a smart, driven woman, as you so obviously are."
"How do you know what I've done?" asked Harleen.
"I don't – I just know whatever it was didn't work," he said. "And that seems odd for a woman of your talents. You've gotta have a pretty impressive resume, right? Every mental hospital in the country should be trying to snap you up. So why aren't they?"
"I thought I told you I asked the questions here," snapped Harleen.
"Fine – there's no need to get touchy," said Jack. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. You've already told me enough by your response," he added.
Harleen smiled. "Ok, slick," she said. "You think you've got me figured out, and that you can rattle me by spouting your little theories. So let me share one of my own – I think this whole game thing of yours is a kind of deflection, but not because you're afraid of making yourself emotionally vulnerable, although maybe that's part of it. But I think you're actually afraid of facing reality."
"Mmm, interesting," he said, smiling at her. "Tell me more."
"Well, it's pretty basic, really," said Harleen, shrugging. "You're not such a complex guy when you get down to it – you're incredibly simple and obvious. Objectively you're a terrible human being, and you've screwed up your life beyond all saving. But rather than face the fact that you're a failure, you pretend like it's not important. You pretend like you're playing some imaginary game, and it doesn't matter whether you win or lose the game as long as you're having fun. But life's not really that kind of game, is it? There are winners and losers, and you're a loser. And you know it."
"Now what makes you think I'm losing?" he asked, grinning.
"Oh, I dunno," retorted Harleen. "You're locked up in a mental asylum for a start. First you've failed as a human being by getting involved in a life of crime, and then you've failed as a criminal by getting caught. Even in Monopoly, getting sent to jail ain't a good thing."
"It is if you got a get out of jail free card," replied Jack.
"And what do you believe that to be?" asked Harleen. "Your smarts? Your charm? The truth is you've played both those cards, and they haven't helped you. Because the reality is those ain't worth much in here, because I'm smarter than you."
"Are you?" asked Jack. "What makes you so sure?"
"I'm a doctor," retorted Harleen. "And also not a criminal, the lowest of the low. No smart person would choose to be that, because crime doesn't pay. If it did, you'd be rich somewhere, in a yacht wearing fine suits on your own private island. But instead you're stuck in here, sharing a cell with another criminal and wearing a loose fitting jumpsuit so you can't hurt yourself. Even in a game, that's a pretty pathetic outcome. And I don't think you're having as much fun as you pretend."
"I am now," he said, smiling at her.
"I'm glad," said Harleen. "Because this is probably really the only fun you have in here. I know your type – you like to be out there, getting a piece of the action. It's driving you crazy being locked in here, but you're trying not to show it – it would hurt a cool, calm, collected guy like you to admit that anything gets to you. But you can't ignore the reality of your situation forever, and one of these days your delusions are gonna come crashing down, and you'll realize that you're just a sad, small man who's wasted his life on childish games and horrific crimes. Maybe you do belong in here because of those delusions, but you'd better hope to God I can't cure you of 'em because that would really break you. And you're pathetic enough as it is."
He chuckled. "I do enjoy a gal who talks dirty," he murmured.
"Like I said, I'm glad," repeated Harleen. "You've got nothing else to enjoy in here."
"You do get to me, you know," he said, grinning at her. "Just a little bit. I think it's because I actually respect you, which is a rare thing for me. But you can't help caring a little about the opinions of people you respect."
"If you really respected me, you wouldn't have treated me the way you have," retorted Harleen.
"Not necessarily," he replied. "I respect you enough to show you I'm interested. People are disposable, like I said. It's rare that I find one who catches my eye. You should be honored."
"Honored that you see me as a piece of meat?" demanded Harleen.
"I don't see you as that," he replied. "I mean, I'm not blind. I'm a red-blooded male and you're an attractive dame. But I'm not a superficial guy – attraction for me ain't just the physical. There's something different about you, something unusual, and that's what fascinates me. It's the combination of looks and brains and…something else. Something I can't put my finger on."
He leaned forward, and placed his outstretched fingers on her hand. "But you feel it too, don't you?" he murmured, as his fingertips slowly slid over the back of her hand, and onto her wrist, trailing up her arm. "Something electric pulling us toward each other…"
"Please don't ever touch me again," interrupted Harleen, ripping her arm away from him.
"Whatever you say, Doc," he murmured, grinning. "I can't help notice that you're shaking though."
"I'm shuddering at being touched by a creep like you," she retorted.
"Mmm, I'm shuddering at the thought too, Doc," he murmured. "But then you have got me all hot and bothered already with all your dirty talk. I'm really liking this game so far."
"If you insist on seeing this as a game, I'm going to win it, Mr. Napier," she said.
"I think we both are," said Jack with a smile. "I can't wait for checkmate."
There was a knock on the door. "Time's up, Dr. Quinzel," said the guard, entering the room. "I'm here to take him back to his cell. Stay behind the line, scum," he added, grabbing Jack by the shoulder and shoving him back across the line that separated the patient's sofa from the doctor's chair. "You sure you don't want him restrained for next time? We can chain him up and handcuff him."
"No, thank you, that won't be necessary," said Harleen. "I'm not afraid of him. And I wouldn't want to give him any ideas."
Jack chuckled. "You ok, Doc?" asked the guard, dragging Jack to his feet. "You look flushed."
"It's a little hot in here, that's all," said Harleen. "This room's always a little stuffy. Nothing opening a window won't solve."
The guard nodded, pulling Jack out of the room. Harleen went over to the window and opened it, letting the brisk Gotham air wash over her. The room was stuffy, and that had given her a headache which spread through her body, a low, dull, throbbing pain like an electric current running through her. The thought of electricity reminded her of Jack, and she felt her flush of anger deepen. "That arrogant jerk," she muttered, as she shut the window. "I'm really looking forward to breaking him."