Batman, we received an anonymous tip today that Terrence Wolfe—the suspected gunrunner Vice has been trying to nail—had just been murdered in the very warehouse that we've been trying to find. Stabbed in the neck.
Unfortunately, to our concern, the place had been cleared out. Whole mess of handguns, SMGs and automatics missing.

There was an office-like room in the back. It seems that Wolfe was a very paranoid man: on his computer, he saved typed transcripts of every conversation he ever had with a customer. This was still on the screen when homicide arrived:

R:I need a new gun.

W: May not be much help. What're you in the market for today?

R: I think... a .500 magnum.

W: Of course you'd need a frigging handcannon. I just got in a few different S&W500s.

R: Perfect. Kevlar wouldn't stack up well against a close-range blast from one of those.

W: Well in case you can't get in too close, I have some nice magnum rounds with tungsten penetrators; I can toss in a couple of complementary speedloaders with your purchase.

R: Put me down for one of the four-inch barrels. Those 8.38 ones are just tacky.

W: You know there's a ten-incher you need a goddamn shoulder strap for.

R:Huh. You know, if you're still taking heat from GPD, I have a couple of ideas on how to move your stock.

THANKS FOR THE GUNS, WOLFE.
-R

From the desk of Police Commissioner James Gordon

Gordon,

Thank you for the intel. I trust vice has enough to work with re: Wolfe's records. Rest assured that I'll assist in the investigation of the homicide and disappearance of the weapons.

I returned to the apartment on the Narrows to see if the tenant had been by again, and id not, what other evidence I could gather. There was a new note, right where I'd found the journal entry.
I think she's targeting me, Gordon.

-Batman

I left this here because I knew you would find it. You're good at what you do. So am I.
I just wanted you to know that I know who you are.
That is to say, I know the type. You're a smart man. A sick man. A bad man.
A bat man.
I'm a bad man, too, you see. Don't get me wrong: I'm a good girl... but I'm a bad, bad man.

Moreover, I respect you. Not what you do, per se, but you as an individual. A man, a myth, a gargoyle guarding Gotham... a Dark Knight. I admire your skill. Your resolve. Your unbridled obsessiveness. Your tongue-in-cheek, over-the-top theatrics. You're a good performer, and I'll be damned if you don't know how to make an entrance.

Problem is, you're so easily upstaged. Part of me wants to blame the costume department—all that black, the swirling black cape, the silly black cowl... there's a deeply lamentable lack of contrast. The kind that makes things dramatic. But you're an allegorical character, aren't you? A huge, lumbering, Gothic figure that embodies the darkness of Gotham; that encapsulates the shadows pervading the streets you patrol. You're the man in black.

So I need to play the lady in white. To be the one who brings light to the darkness.

See, I believe in equilibrium. I can't very well be a criminal if there's no crime fighters. Anyway, as your good friend Harvey Dent might agree, everything in Gotham is based on duality.
Why, even you have two sides to you… your face is divided right down the center by that cowl. The monster, and then the man. The man, and then the scared little boy.

The main issue here, as I see it, is thus: you're too damn committed. You've probably completely lost whoever there is under the cowl; lost your humanity in the iconography of the bat. Lost your self in your shadow, to speak in terms of Jungian archetypes... and shadows? Well, they're two-dimensional.
If there's one thing I can't stand in a good drama, it's a two-dimensional character.

Everything about my aesthetic is based on chiaroscuro: varying degrees of lightness and darkness that coalesce to communicate depth and dimension.
To create depth in our fair city, I have to serve as the lightbringer... and my time to shine is nigh, Batman. No ifs, ands, or buts, Bats.

Smart man you are—and here's those archetypes again—you probably know who the lightbringer is: the devil.
Furthermore, you can be sure that even if I have to employ the scarecrow, the trickster, Apollo, and numerous damsels in distress, I'm going to show you that the shadow can't exist in this absence of the self.

Who exactly would you be without your mask?