After work, Harley headed for the Gotham City Police Department, and entered the large and extremely busy building. There were numerous officers milling about, and the phones rang constantly. Harley forded her way through the crowds of people and reached the front desk, where she faced a very harried-looking sergeant.
"Um…hello," said Harley. "My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and I'm here to see Detective Montoya, if she's available."
"Uh…maybe," stammered the sergeant, glancing through some paperwork. "Let me just try and call her."
He picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Detective Montoya, there's a Dr. Quinzel here to see you," he said. "I don't know what it's about…"
"I'm a psychiatrist, and I'd like some information about a patient," explained Harley. "I was hoping she could assist me."
The sergeant nodded. "She's a shrink," he said into the phone. "Uh huh. Ok, I'll send her up."
He hung up the phone. "Her office is on the second floor – take a left and then a right," he said, gesturing to the stairs.
Harley followed the directions, and knocked on a door. "Come in!" said a female voice.
Harley opened the door to see a woman standing by a large map of the city, with different colored lines drawn all over it. She turned as Harley entered and smiled. "Dr. Quinzel, nice to meet you," she said, shaking her hand as she took a seat. "How can I help you?"
"I hate to bother you when you seem so busy," said Harley.
"Yeah, with Maroni's arrest, things have got kinda crazy," sighed Montoya. "The rumor is his guys have joined up with Bronski and Sol's gang, so we're expecting them to strike Falcone at any moment. We can only hope a buncha guys on both sides die without too many civilian casualties."
"I see," said Harley, her eyes sliding over to the map. "Do you mind if I have a look?"
Montoya shrugged, standing up as Harley came over to study the map. "This red is Bronski and Sol's territory?" she asked, gesturing to it.
"That's right," said Montoya. "Blue was Maroni's – as you can see, it's right in the middle between Falcone's and the other gang's. We expect them both to be moving in on his turf – could get really ugly really quickly."
Harley nodded, continuing to study the map. Montoya cleared her throat. "I understood you had a question about a patient? Was it one of my arrests?"
"Actually, he hasn't been arrested yet," said Harley, tearing her eyes away from the map reluctantly. "But I have every hope that my efforts will put him behind bars soon. I'm trying to establish a psychological profile for him, and I thought the police might have some information that could help with that."
"Of course, anything we can do," said Montoya, nodding.
"I appreciate that," said Harley. "So what can you tell me about the Joker?"
Montoya was clearly shocked at this request, but quickly recovered herself. "Well, not much," she retorted. "We really don't know much more about him than what's been reported in the papers."
"Is there an ongoing investigation?" asked Harley. "I assume there is. You're not assigned to the case, are you?"
"I'm not, thank God," replied Montoya. "I deal with a lot of horrible stuff in this job, but I've never seen anything as horrible as those creepy smiles he leaves on his victims. My mom's a devout Catholic, and she crosses herself whenever his name is mentioned. She says this Joker's a demon from hell. I'm not sure I disagree with her."
"Well, I hope not, since I can't psychologically profile a demon from hell," said Harley with a smile. Montoya didn't smile back.
The door to her office opened at that moment, and an overweight man entered carrying a box of donuts. "Here you go, Renee – got your favorite, strawberry sprinkles," he said. He noticed Harley at that moment. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt anything personal…" he began.
"It's not personal, Harvey," snapped Montoya. "You don't need to assume it's personal when there's a woman in my office anymore than I would assume it's personal when there's a woman in yours. This is my partner, Detective Bullock," she explained. "Harvey, this is Dr. Quinzel, a psychiatrist – she came to ask some questions about the Joker."
"Yeah? Why's that?" asked Bullock, taking a donut and biting into it. "You wanna write some tell-all book about the freak?"
"It wouldn't be a very long book if I did, as there doesn't seem to be much to tell," retorted Harley. "Detective Montoya says there's not much you know about him, no more than was in the papers anyway."
"What's to know?" asked Bullock. "He's a freak."
"I'm sure you'd like to know where he is," replied Harley.
"And you're trying to help with that, is that it?" asked Bullock, pulling out a hip flask and taking a swig from it. "Doing a little amateur investigation, Doc?"
"Harvey, there's no need to be rude," snapped Montoya. "Dr. Quinzel is trying to put together a psychological profile for the Joker, and we're grateful for any assistance she can give us. Please forgive him, Dr. Quinzel."
"Of course," said Harley, nodding. "I understand a lot of people resent psychiatrists…"
"I don't resent 'em, I just think they're full of crap," retorted Bullock. "You know that one we used to talk to at the university got banged up in Arkham – turns out he was experimenting on his students. Always felt there was something off about him, but it's not just him – they're all like that. Freaks who pretend they can help other freaks. Kinda a sick joke when you think about it."
"Speaking of jokes, could you tell me who's been assigned to the Joker's case?" asked Harley. "Maybe they would have more information for me."
Montoya and Bullock shared a look. "The truth is, Dr. Quinzel, there's no open investigation into the Joker currently," said Montoya slowly.
"Why not?" asked Harley.
"Because we got bigger fish to fry," retorted Bullock. "The freak slices up gang members, so I say more power to him."
"It's not that," said Montoya hastily. "It's just that we have so little to go on. The investigation can't really continue until we have more information available, and more leads to follow up on."
"Plus the Comish's pet bat is on the job," added Bullock. "He's gonna be more successful than we are. Why waste resources on it when a gang war is about to erupt?"
Harley stared at him. "Are you saying the police department is working with Batman to locate the Joker?"
"No, we're not," snapped Montoya. "We don't work with vigilantes, do we, Harvey?"
"I don't see why not in this case," said Bullock, shrugging as he took another swig from his hip flask. "Only a freak can find another freak. Maybe they'll kill each other, and we'll kill two birds with one stone."
"Dr. Quinzel, I'd appreciate if you didn't repeat anything you've heard outside of this office," said Montoya. "My partner has clearly been drinking and doesn't know what he's saying. Excuse us for a moment while I sober him up," she said, dragging Bullock out of the office.
Harley watched them leave, and then headed back over to the map. "Where are you?" she whispered, studying the streets and buildings in the red lined territory. "You're in there somewhere. If I were the Joker, laughing at the cruel absurdity of the world, where would I hide out?"
Her eyes suddenly fell upon a building by the dockyards labeled Pierrot Shipping. It was an unusual name, which caught her eye. And it was also a name that related to comedy, or at least the Commedia dell'arte, the name of the sad clown. It was a long shot, but if the Joker truly had crafted his identity around a bizarre and twisted sense of humor, it just might be the kind of place he'd call home.
She made a note of the location just before Montoya re-entered the room. "I'm sorry again about Detective Bullock," she said. "Please forget anything he said."
"I already have," said Harley, smiling. "Thank you for your time, Detective Montoya."
"I only wish I could have been more help," replied Montoya, leading her to the door.
"It's fine – it was a long shot anyway," said Harley. "Have a good evening."
She left the station, and then reached into her pocket for the address of the Pierrot Shipping warehouse. "Speaking of long shots," she sighed, heading off into the Gotham night.
