BATMAN: The New Continuity

Detective Cone held Daniel Furlong gently but firmly by the arm as they walked in from the hallway, Detective Soong right behind. The squad room was empty, all six desks unmanned. Lieutenant Kitch emerged from his office and looked at the two detectives and their guest. "Ben?"

Cone glanced briefly at Furlong. "This is Daniel Furlong, Lieutenant. We need to talk to him in regards to the Harris murder."

Kitch nodded and jerked his thumb behind him at the door over his left shoulder. "Take it to Interview One, then."

Soong put his hand on Furlong's shoulder and led him toward the door. Cone stretched, smiling in twisted pleasure as he heard popping and cracking sounds from his elbows and back. "Where is everyone?" Cone asked Kitch as he started slowly toward Interview One.

"Bullock and Bock are out following up on a potential connection to the case they're working. I told 'em to take Montoya along, too; with you and Ben working this Harris case, she hasn't had a lot to do around here the last few days."

Cone nodded. "I guess so. Although, if I were her, I'd be grateful for the rest. You know?"

Kitch smiled and turned back into his office. "She was grateful. But, as the Amish probably say, 'that be idleness.'" Kitch eyed Cone up and down strangely for a moment, regarding him with a slightly tilted head. "Not taking your coat off?"

Cone looked down at himself, then back up at his lieutenant and shook his head with a furrowed brow. "I like to keep it on during interviews. It makes me look bigger."

Kitch gave a shrug with his eyebrows, then withdrew into his office, closing the door behind him.

Detective Cone walked into the interview room, where Soong already sat with a nervous, shifty Daniel Furlong. Furlong stood straight up from his chair when Cone entered. "I'm still not satisfied," he said nervously, shaking his head. "I need to be sure that if I tell you what I know, he won't be able to get to me. I need to be sure I'll be safe."

"You're in the custody of the Gotham City Police now, Mr. Furlong," Cone said reassuringly as he took a seat at the table, motioning for Furlong to do the same. After standing for another second, Furlong retook his chair. "We can post uniformed officers at your residence to guard you until we catch whoever did this. Or, if sometimes we can't spare the men for some reason, myself, Detective Soong, or one of the other detectives here could arrange to be with you. As long as you are in our custody -- trust me -- no harm will come to you."

Furlong seemed only slightly reassured.

"All right?" Cone asked.

Furlong gave a halting nod. "Yes. Yes, I suppose."

"I'll level with you," Cone said, "if what you tell us today is helpful, you'll be the biggest break we've had in this case yet. You're way too important for us to let something happen to you. All right? Nothing to worry over, sir."

"Yes," Furlong said, sounding a bit more at ease, although just a bit. "Thank you, Detective."

Detective Soong interlocked his fingers and rested his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly, looking at Furlong. "What is it you can tell us?"

Furlong's right hand went shakily to his face, covering his eyes, then wiping down the rest of his visage. "He had white skin," he said, looking at Detective Cone, terrified. "I knew who it was as soon as he walked in. He wasn't wearing a disguise or a mask or a hat or anything . . . he must've just walked right in from the street."

Cone and Soong exchanged tense, silent glances. "Mr. Furlong," Cone began slowly, "the Joker bought the knife? The Joker?"

Furlong nodded, his eyes wide. "He was so civil, so quiet. I'd always thought of him as a maniac, some out-of-control murderer . . . poor Joel . . ." Furlong gave a shallow gasp and began to quietly cry, putting his hand to his mouth.

Detective Soong's hand went to Furlong's shoulder, reassuring, comforting. "It's no easy thing to talk about this, I know. But, you have to calm down and tell us more, or you won't be any help at all and this will all be for nothing."

"Yes . . . " Furlong said, sniffing loudly, nodding his head. "Yes, of course." He took a moment to steady himself. "I . . . I was working behind the counter, just watching him. He walked in and smiled at me, nodding his head like he was some polite gentleman and I was the host of a . . . of a party or something. He walked around the shop for a little while. It looked like he was eyeing the merchandise. I had no idea what he was planning on doing. I don't know him or how he thinks . . . I thought he could rob me or maybe was looking for something to kill me with or . . . I don't know . . .

"He turned around -- it seemed like he had been browsing forever, but he finally turned around -- and asked me if he could . . . if he could look at some of the knives that I had on display in the case. And . . . and I was petrified -- petrified. What else was I supposed to do? What could I have done?"

Cone looked briefly over at Soong, then regarded Furlong sympathetically and nodded. "It's all right, sir. Most people in your situation would've done the same thing. Now, keep going, please."

"He pulled out this credit card. I looked at it . . . and, it was obvious that it wasn't valid -- I could tell by the date printed on it that it had expired years ago. And I asked him about it just out of reflex, as a businessman -- I'd done it dozens of times before. And he was . . . so calm about it. He just looked at me and insisted that I charge his purchase on that card. And he picked out a knife from the case, the Sentinel model, and I charged it to that credit card. What else was I supposed to do? I had no idea what he would do to me if . . ."

It was four days ago, and he was standing eye-to-eye with the Joker. Not exactly eye-to-eye . . . the Joker stood maybe two inches taller than Furlong. "My gratitude," the Joker had said as he took the knife, smiling horribly. Then he stared at Furlong for a long minute, not saying a word, not making a sound the entire time, just looking at him expectantly. "Well?" the Joker asked in disbelief after that time had passed

"What . . . ?" Furlong asked, barely able to hear his own voice.

The Joker turned sideways and looked at Furlong out of the corner of his eye. "Aren't you going to thank me for my patronage? I'm not going to wait forever, you know."

"Oh . . ." Furlong responded, now confused as well as terrified. " . . . thank you."

Furlong recoiled suddenly when the Joker reached across the counter toward him. The Joker's hand took firm hold of Furlong's shoulder and led him out from behind the counter. "Can I call you Danny?" he asked. Furlong gave no answer -- he wasn't even thinking anything, really. "I'll take your stiff silence as a 'yes'," the Joker said as he pushed Furlong out the door of the shop and onto the sidewalk, "I always do that, anyway."

The Joker led Daniel Furlong down the sidewalk toward a pea-green car, one of those enormous gas guzzlers from the 1970's, its paint dulled and flaking. As they walked, the Joker led, striding upright and confidently down the street, making no effort whatsoever to hide his appearance or identity. When they got to the car, he director Furlong to climb in on the passenger side. The door was unlocked, and as Furlong climbed inside, he saw the Joker pull a set of car keys out of his pocket, tossing them up into the air and snatching them back before he got in behind the steering wheel.

"How many men are in your employ?" the Joker asked, starting the car. Furlong looked at him, mute. "I say 'employ' because I assume that you don't run that place yourself, and 'men' because the only men your age who employ young women are perverted old coots taken to worsening their arthritis through constant masturbation. You just don't seem the type who has arthritis. I'm a pretty good judge of people usually."

"Just . . . one," Furlong responded quietly, watching as the Joker pulled the car out of its space and into traffic, signaling to the other cars with his arm out the window, using the old hand signals.

"I thought that," the Joker said as he drove. "It didn't seem like you'd have too many people working for you. Where does he live?"

"What?" Furlong asked, immediately afraid that he'd sounded too strong. At once he softened his tone, and asked again, meekly, "What?"

The Joker let out a heavy sigh. "It's a little late in the game for you to start fucking with me, Danny!" he yelled, his voice becoming shrill. The next instant, the Joker was embraced by a complete, disquieting calm. "Tell me where your employee lives," he commanded slowly, "or I'll cut your throat, stitch it up halfway -- taking care to do a sloppy job of it -- and pour bleach through the hole until you die of convulsions." The Joker gripped the wheel tightly for an instant, then relaxed his hands, took in a deep breath, and let it out with an easy sigh. "I just thought that up just now, you know," he said conversationally, "about the throat-cutting and the bleach. Pretty good for a brainstorm, eh?"

Furlong could feel his lower lip starting to tremble now.

"Where does your employee live, Danny?" the Joker asked again, much as a mother would try to persuade a reluctant child to tell a secret through false gentleness.

"Six-two-two-four-seven Avenue T," Furlong said weakly. "It's five blocks south of -- "

"I know where it is, Danny," the Joker informed Furlong firmly, "I'm familiar with the area."

They were at 62247 Avenue T a few minutes later, and Furlong and the Joker went up to Joel's apartment. Joel opened the door right away when he heard his boss's voice, and screamed when he saw the Joker.

The Joker shoved Furlong into the apartment, then slammed the door and slapped Joel hard across the face. His purple-gloved finger went to his red lips. "Shh!! . . . Christ . . . With all they tell folks on the news about what a tough city this is to live in, there sure are a lot of chickenshits living around here!" he said in disbelief.

"Dan?" Joel asked, staring at Furlong in frightened bewilderment.

"Danny here tells me your name is Joel," the Joker said, putting his arm around Joel's shoulders. "Is he telling me the truth?"

Joel turned his head and looked wide-eyed at the Joker, then shot a quick glance at Furlong. "That's my name," Joel said, eyeing his boss.

"Terrific!" the Joker exclaimed, smacking Joel solidly on the back. "Tell me, Joel -- you didn't work today, did you?"

Joel shook his head. "No . . ."

"Didn't think so . . . but here's my dilemma: I need your boss here to help me with something, something that is probably going to raise quite a few questions with certain people. But, since Danny probably won't be in a very testifying mood after tomorrow, it'd be so much easier if you could just put on like you worked today; that way, when certain people come around asking about what your boss is about to do, you can answer their questions and Danny here won't have to bother himself with it."

The Joker stood in front of Joel, held him out at arm's length, and looked seriously into his eyes. "Can you do that for me, Joel? For us?"

Joel gave a slow nod and tried his best to force a smile.

"Excellent," the Joker said, shoving Joel to the side and grabbing Furlong by the shoulder. Leaving Joel behind, they started out the door. "I'll be in touch soon, Joel," the Joker said before he pushed Furlong out into the hallway and closed the door after him.

" . . . after we left Joel's apartment, he drove me out to Gotham Heights," Furlong continued, "way, way out -- past the estates. He pulled the car off into the woods around there. I thought he was going to kill me, but he pulled out this bright-red fabric sack and put it over my head. He started the car and said something like . . . now I was the red hood, or something. I can't remember exactly."

"And then he drove you where?" Detective Cone asked.

"I don't know. He sat me down in a chair and took off the hood, and I was in this white room. Nothing but white. Very musty, stale air. He threw this bundle of . . . clothes at me, this Batman costume, really badly stitched. He probably sewed it himself. He told me that he knew it wasn't perfect, but if I just kept the cape thrown around me, he wouldn't notice."

Cone and Soong exchanged a confused glance. Soong regarded Furlong, puzzled. "'He' meaning the Joker?"

Furlong shook his head. "No . . . no, 'he' meaning the man I killed. Harvey Harris. I killed him."

Cone and Soong exchanged another, longer, even more confused glance. "Why . . ." Soong began slowly, looking from his partner around to Furlong and then back, ". . . would he dress you up in a Batman costume to kill someone . . . when the only witnesses would be the killers and the victim?"

"I don't know," Furlong said, "I don't know . . . I didn't ask questions."

"No," Cone said to Furlong, "of course not. I don't want to worry about that now. From what I understand, it's useless to grapple with motive when the Joker is involved. Did you ever see anything that would indicate the location of where you'd been taken?"

"No," Furlong said, "I had no idea where I was until he took me to the farm where I . . . where I . . ."

Furlong inhaled suddenly and let out a deep sob. He leaned forward on the table, hands over his face, and began to cry. As he cried, he began to mumble to himself, muttering in a low, incomprehensible tone.

Detective Cone stood from the table, stretching both arms out sideways. He put his right hand into the right pocket of his overcoat briefly, then brought it out, walked over to stand behind Furlong, and put that hand on the other man's shoulder. Cone patted Furlong's shoulder several times gently. "Feel like taking a break?"

Taking his hands away from his face, Furlong took a deep breath, calming himself for the moment. He looked up gratefully at Detective Cone and nodded once. "I do, yes. Please."

Cone looked over at Soong, then nodded. "There's a lunchroom on the second floor; feel like something to eat?"

Furlong gave another small nod.

"Okay," Cone said, giving Furlong another pat on the shoulder, "come-on."

Daniel Furlong stood from the table and let Detective Cone lead him out of Interview One. Detective Soong stood as well and followed them out.

Beneath Wayne Manor
1:38 p.m.

Dick had left the examination of Batman's recovered homing beacon to Harold while he, soaked through with river water, went upstairs to take a shower. He walked back into the workshop now, unruly hair damp atop his head and smelling of shampoo, dressed in the dark blue terry bathrobe that Alfred had kept for him at Wayne Manor since Dick had moved out of the big house five years ago.

Harold saw Dick walk in and waved him over, his deceptively placid-looking eyes examining the disassembled homing device. Dick approached Harold, hands dug into the front pockets of his robe. "What d'we got?" he asked, looking over the dwarf's head from behind. Harold's left index finger directed Dick to a notepad, on the top page of which had been scrawled several notes. Dick leaned down to read the pad with interest:

--High contamination from river water

> --Screws on underside loosened; the box was probably opened and closed again before it went in the water

--Soil found inside casing; not consisteent with riverbed soil type

"So if the soil in the casing didn't come from the riverbottom, where'd it come from?"

Harold turned around at his workbench and pushed past Dick, waving for Dick to follow him as he made his way across to the other side of the workshop. As Harold walked, Ace trotted up at his heels, a spotless new tennis ball in his mouth. Harold looked down at the dog with a faint smile, then brushed him firmly away with his hand. Sitting in a small wire rack on the countertop that ringed the wall of the workshop was a small glass vial of cloudy liquid. Harold picked it up and handed it to Dick, along with a small color-coded plastic card.

Dick held the vial up to the light, scrutinizing it briefly, eyes narrowed. Then he lowered the vial and went to the card, a soil-testing guide. "Mostly silt," Dick said as he read the card, then looked back to the vial of liquid. He then looked back blankly at Harold. "What does that mean?"

Harold pulled an old, leather-bound volume from a collection of books that stood at the end of that section of countertop. He sat the book down flat and beckoned to Dick. The book's binding bore the title Gotham City Soil Survey, 1958, Dick saw as Harold presented it briefly in front of him. Harold leafed through the pages until he came to what was labeled Map 29. This map, Dick saw as he looked over Harold's shoulder, consisted of black-and-white aerial photographs of the area where the Monarch Playing Card Company stood, as well as the nearby river. Superimposed over the photo-map was a system of light-brown contour lines, each contour labeled with a letter and number code.

Harold's right index finger lighted on the contour that encompassed the area of the river where Dick had found the homing beacon, then slid down to the map key in the page's lower right corner; the soil that comprised the riverbed was primarily clay. Harold then pointed to the contour upon which the Monarch factory stood, and then down to the key; the Monarch factory was built atop soil that was, as Dick saw from the test, mostly silt.

"The dirt in the beacon casing came from the factory?" Dick asked himself, almost in disbelief. Dick turned to Harold, eyes wide, his mind racing. "Someone opened up the casing and put dirt from around the factory in there?"

Dick brushed past Harold, nearly tripping over Ace on his way out the door. When Dick walked out onto the lower plateau of the cave, he saw Alfred just about to step off of the elevator platform. Dick jogged toward the butler, holding his palm out at arm's length in front of him. "We're going back up," he said as he stepped onto the elevator and flipped the control handle to the Up position.

"Am I to assume the investigation has taken a favorable turn?" Alfred asked, trying his best to sound deadpan.

Dick shrugged as he looked up at the approaching upper plateau, which couldn't be reached fast enough, no matter how fast the elevator would've been going. "Depends on what you mean by 'favorable'. I think I know where Batman is . . ." The elevator reached the top of its climb; Dick flipped the control handle to Off and stepped quickly off the platform. ". . . but it's pretty obvious that whoever took him is just screaming at me to find them."

Dick sat down at the computer console. Alfred stood behind him. "If this isn't a trap, then I never wore a red tunic," Dick shake with a shake of his head as he began typing. Soon, the large main screen displayed a hyperlinked index of Gotham City building schematics, accessed from the Hall of Records database. Dick's palm rolled the direction ball on the console beside the keyboard, guiding the onscreen arrow to the link that read "Monarch Playing Cards", located near the middle of a long list of Gotham landmarks.

The next instant, the complete floorplan of the old Monarch factory filled the screen. Dick's eyes moved quickly from side-to-side, scanning the blueprint. "Right there," he said, abruptly standing and pointing at an area near the bottom-center portion of the image. "It looks like there's a small basement level to the building. Just a few small rooms; they must've used it for . . ." Dick shrugged. "I dunno, storage or something."

Dick stood from the console and started back for the costume vault. "You've still got a few spare costumes back here for me, don't you?" he called back to Alfred as he entered the vault.

Alfred gave a nod and called back, "Certainly, Master Dick."

Gotham City Police Headquarters
Main Cafeteria
1:41 p.m.

Detective Soong carried a plastic tray carefully across the room and sat down at the small round table along with Cone and Daniel Furlong. Soong slid the tray over in front of Furlong, who sat stiffly in his molded chair, hands clasped between his knees beneath the table. "They ran out of orange juice this morning, they said," Soong explained, nodding toward the tray, "so I got you a coffee instead. It goes with just about everything."

Furlong looked down at the sliced-turkey sandwich on the plate in front of him, then shifted his eyes slightly and watched the thin trail of steam spiral up from the center of the black coffee.

Cone regarded Furlong with concern. "Everything all right there, sir?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Furlong said in a small voice. "I'm just not very hungry. I'll wait for the coffee to cool a little."

"I could get you some ice," Soong offered, standing and jerking his thumb back toward the kitchen, "if that would help cool it off for you. Unless you'd just rather wait . . ."

Furlong smiled weakly and waved Soong gently back down toward his seat. "Thank you, but I'll wait. Maybe by the time it's cool enough to drink, I'll be able to eat some of this."

Cone gave a slight nod, but still watched Furlong with obvious worry, his brown knit in concern. Cone slid his gaze over to his partner, who looked first at Furlong with similar concern, then over briefly at Cone, then back to Furlong, whose face took on a slightly pained expression.

Letting out a low moan, Furlong began rubbing his stomach gently.

Detective Soong leaned toward Furlong, more obviously concerned than ever. "Sir, what's the matter?"

Detective Cone stood and leaned forward on the table.

"I'm getting this . . . tightness in my -- !" Furlong's hand clenched tightly, involuntarily into a fist over his stomach, and his eyes went suddenly wide. His face contorted into a terrible grimace, every muscle beneath his skin tensing and spasming.

"Oh, good God . . ." Cone said with rising fear as he moved quickly with Soong to Furlong's side.

Soong met Furlong's wide, terrified eyes for a moment, then turned back to his partner. "Jesus Christ . . . what the hell . . . ?"

Cone turned around to face the rest of the cafeteria, his eyes scanning the assembled diners. He found two uniformed officers walking out of the exit, far across at the other end of the room. "You officers!" he yelled, his voice nearly cracking. "Get a doctor!" The two officers looked at Cone, hesitating a moment in their confusion. "Now!" Cone screamed urgently.

Furlong grabbed his sides, gagging violently. He burst out of his chair, overturning the table as he stood, and promptly doubled over, his body wracked by convulsions. He lost his balance, fell to the ground, immediately curled up into a fetal position, his muscles still spasming. Furlong managed to turn his head slightly and look up at Cone and Soong, who were now kneeling at his side. He tried to cry out, to scream from the pain that was flooding his senses, but could only elicit an anguished guttural groan before he felt his facial muscles contort one last time, and everything he saw gave way finally to black.

Detective Soong stood, looking at the dead man's twisted, frozen face. "Shit . . ."

Cone brushed the sides of his jacket back and put his hands on his hips. He looked at Soong, distressed, uncertain, and shook his head. He took another look at Daniel Furlong's body on the floor, then turned away in disgust, unable to look upon the man's face anymore, its expression, in death, contorted into a haunting, horrible, and all-too-familiar grin.

Monarch Playing Card Company
1111 Parker Avenue
2:02 p.m.

Living back in Gotham City for what he thought was safe to call a good while now, it had been some time since Nightwing found himself out in costume in the midst of broad daylight. It was a strange feeling, very awkward. As he opened the lock and stepped inside the perimeter of the factory, he felt more self-conscious about his appearance in costume than he could ever remember feeling. Nightwing imagined he, as well as Batman and Robin, must look quite ridiculous to the average observer when viewed beneath full-on sunlight.

Nightwing entered the factory through the same door he had the other two times and began to search at once for the door that would take him to the basement.

"I suppose you're wondering what I'm going to pull out for my big finale."

Batman gave the Joker no answer, but just stared at him instead. The overhead light in the room was on, and the Joker stood directly in front of his prisoner, arms folded, pacing a few steps gently back and forth.

As best he could tell, Batman's hands and feet were bound by fishing line, wrapped tightly again and again around his wrists and ankles, and the frame of the chair. The line had a great deal of tensile strength, and despite his almost constant effort during his captivity, Batman had been unable to break it. Although he continued to apply pressure to the line, Batman knew that if he were to escape from this place, he would have to rely on something other than using his considerable brute strength to snap the bindings.

"It's a doozy," the Joker continued, grinning, eyes narrowed, eyebrows raised, nodding knowingly. "It'll really tie everything together. You'll see. I really think you'll like it."

Batman concentrated on the fishing line and the chair, and tried not to think about what the Joker was saying, at least for the time being.

The door Nightwing was looking for was in one of the far corners of the factory floor from where he had come in. He spotted it as he began to step alongside the old assembly line. The doorway to the basement rose up from the floor, directly opposite one wall, its shape squaring off at the back to the adjacent wall, forming a small nook between the door and its opposite wall, at the back of the factory.

The doorknob wouldn't turn much more than an eighth of an inch either way when Nightwing tried it; locked, as he'd expected. The problem was that there didn't seem to be a keyhole on this side of the door -- the knob was round, smooth, and without a visible lock.

Nightwing examined the doorway, the walls that shaped it made of plaster that was weak and flaking from age. He looked over the jamb as well, built of simple pine boards that were warped and showing severe splintering on several places along their edges. Nightwing took a few steps back away from the door, placing his weight on his back foot and assuming a martial arts stance. His eyes focused in on an area of the door just above the doorknob. He took a deep breath, quickly shifted all his weight forward to his front foot, and brought his back leg around and up, connecting with his target on the door with a savage roundhouse kick.

The door swung hard open with a crash and the sound of splintering wood, rebounding off the inside wall, nearly closing again. Nightwing stopped the door and pushed it fully open. In front of him was a small landing, and a set of steps leading down into darkness. He began his careful descent.

The Joker turned and grinned even wider at the sound of the loud crash, as if he'd been expecting it. The thin, purple-clad lunatic tried and failed to suppress an anxious giggle. His hand went immediately to his mouth, fingertips over his lips.

"Here he comes . . . !" the Joker snickered, then clamped both hands over his mouth, looking as if it were taking every ounce of his will to stifle a severe instance of laughter. All at once the Joker cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, straightening the thin string bow-tie he wore around his collar. In a moment, he was absolutely calm. "Pardon me," he said to Batman, apologetic, "but I sometimes get the better of myself."

"Now, if you'll pardon me again," the Joker continued, reaching into the inner pocket of his purple jacket as he walked around behind Batman, "I can't allow myself to waste this moment."

Batman's feet weren't tied separately to the legs of the chair, but rather bound together and secured to the middle of a round brace that ran between the front legs. Batman leaned forward as far as he could and examined the brace -- approximately one-inch in diameter. Sitting back in the chair, Batman pressed his shoulders back into the chair as hard as he could, arching his back severely, and put every ounce of energy in his body to the task of straightening his legs.

"Oh, goddammit," came the Joker's annoyed voice, followed by his rapid footsteps.

Batman relaxed suddenly.

The Joker walked back around in front of Batman, looked at him, and sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Now, just what kind of sense would that have made? Hmm?" Still shaking his head, the Joker went around behind the chair again, grabbing onto the back and sliding it around on the floor, slowly turning Batman around a full 180 degrees, so he was now facing the opposite wall of the room, a wall which included a white wooden door.

"See, that's how stupid I am," the Joker said, crossing his eyes, putting his fingertips to his temples. "I had you facing the wrong way!"

The Joker stood several feet in front of Batman, facing the door. He reached into his inner jacket pocket again and produced a small gun. The barrel of the weapon was larger than most pistols, and it flipped open above the handle to allow for the loading of a single round of ammunition. With a wicked smile, the Joker produced a feathered dart and loaded it into the barrel. He turned again to face the door.

Extending his arm quickly out to the side, then bringing his wrist back in front of his face, the Joker checked the time on his watch. Catching a side-glance of the Joker's face, Batman could see the killer's wrinkled, confused forehead as he saw what time it was. "Hmmph," the Joker grunted, lowering his arm and shrugging to himself. "He must've taken off early."

Batman wasted no time pondering the Joker's comment, instead resuming his struggle against the brace. He arched his back again, straining his legs forward, trying with everything he had to straighten them, and splinter the wooden brace.

The knob on the door began to turn. Batman looked up suddenly. "Look out behind the door!" he yelled in his loudest voice. The Joker's head turned to face Batman, his eyes burning, incensed. The next instant, Batman took all the energy he had been directing outward and turned it back toward himself. From his arched position, he thrust his body hard back into the seat, forcing his legs back underneath the chair. The wooden brace snapped. Batman lifted his legs up, still tied at the ankles, but free of the chair, and kicked the Joker hard in the center of the back.

The Joker stumbled forward with a yelp of surprise. At the same instant, the door came open, catching the Joker solidly in the jaw and driving him back behind Batman to the floor. Batman looked up at the doorway and saw Nightwing swinging the door open the rest of the way and step inside.

Nightwing hesitated a moment, directing a confused look first at the Joker on the floor, then at Batman.

The Joker got to his feet and turned to Nightwing, the dart gun still in his hand. He lowered the muzzle.

"Watch the dart!" Batman warned, leaning back on the chair and twisting around on its two rear legs to face the Joker. Batman brought his feet up and kicked the Joker again, this time hitting him in the side. The Joker bounced into the wall, hitting his head and dropping the gun. Nightwing was on him in an instant, wrenching his thin arms around behind his back and holding his wrists. The Joker strained against the hold, looking back at Batman angrily. "Would you stop kicking me?"

Nightwing braced his shoulder against the Joker's back and forced him hard against the wall, hitting his head again. "Just stand still," Nightwing ordered angrily, keep the Joker's wrists together with one hand and reaching into one of the utility compartments around his forearm with the other and removing a plastic wrist bind. Nightwing inserted the narrow end of the bind into the hole at its other end, slipped the loop over the Joker's hands, and drew it tight.

The Joker struggled against the bind, but it held easily. Nightwing shoved him down into a corner of the room, then turned to tend to Batman. "Sorry I took so long," he said apologetically as he leaned down to free Batman's legs from each other. "I promise, Robin will never know about the boxers."

Batman looked down at Nightwing urgently, pointedly. "Don't turn your back on him."

Eyes wide, Nightwing turned around immediately.

The Joker got to his feet, hands free, a switchblade in his right hand. He crouched slightly and threw the knife at Nightwing's face, grinning maniacally, his eyes ablaze with insanity.

Nightwing dodged to the right, but the blade still caught him across the cheek. His hand went up instinctively to his face. The Joker seized on the distraction and ran at Nightwing, shoving past him and charging out the door. Nightwing turned fast and took a step out the door, pulling a bola from one of the utility compartments around his left ankle as he moved. He flung the bola up at the Joker's ankles as the madman fled up the steps.

The bola found its mark, its twin spherical weights wrapping the cord between them over and over again around the Joker's calves and ankles, tripping him. The Joker fell down hard on the staircase, banging his jaw on the corner of one of the steps. Nightwing advanced on him quickly but cautiously, binding his hands behind his back again, then rolling him over on his back and snatching the pink carnation from his purple lapel, pulling with it nearly a foot of rubber hose, an airtight balloon on the other end. "Goddammit . . ." the Joker groaned, an angry frown on his face.

Nightwing aimed the carnation at the plaster wall of the stairwell and squeezed the balloon. A steady stream of pale yellow liquid spewed forth from the center of the flower, splashing onto the wall, dissolving the plaster. Nightwing emptied every last drop he could squeeze out from the balloon, then dropped the flower down onto one of the steps and crushed it beneath his boot.

Nightwing stepped down off the stairs and walked back to Batman, shaking his head. "Don't turn your back on him, dammit," Batman warned again, strongly.

Incredulous, as if he had already grown weary of hearing Batman say that, Nightwing slowly turned back to the staircase. His mouth fell open, his eyes narrowed, his face taking on a look of total and absolute disbelief. The stairwell was empty. The Joker was gone. "Oh, for God's sake . . ."

"Untie me," Batman ordered gruffly.

Nightwing pulled his knife and bent down to cut the line around Batman's ankles. As he did so, he allowed himself a quick glance at the silk boxers Batman wore. "Just what the hell did he to do you?"

Batman's legs were freed; he spread them apart, stretching then, working his knees back and forth as Nightwing walked around to cut his hands loose. "Another time," Batman said, sounding almost anxious.

"He didn't peek under the cowl, did he?" Nightwing asked, concern evident in his voice.

Nightwing cut Batman's hands loose, and Batman stood at once from the chair, flexing his wrists. "No, of course not -- he's not interested in that," he said reprovingly to Nightwing, sounding almost as if he was disappointed that his former prot�g� had asked such a question, as he started for the stairs.

Batman's bare feet climbed the short staircase three steps at a time, and he burst out onto the floor of the old Monarch Playing Card factory. There was a surprise, a grim memory, a recognition there in his mind when Batman realized where he was, but he ignored it and instead began to instantly scan the floor for any sign of where the Joker had gone. Batman walked forward quickly and precisely, his eyes moving constantly back and forth.

He saw nothing for endless moments, nothing but the layers of dust that covered the old factory like gray snow, undisturbed by footprints. Then his eyes passed over something up ahead. It was small, just a barely perceptible interruption in the space of the floor. Batman stepped up and stood over it. He crouched down briefly and picked it up, holding it between his fingers in front of his narrowed eyes.

The plastic bind that had held the Joker's hands, cut cleanly apart through the middle.

Looking further up on the floor, Batman saw the two round shapes of the weights of Nightwing's bola. He stood over those, the string between them cut to pieces and left.

Batman started quickly for the wooden door up ahead that led to the outside, slightly ajar, turning back to Nightwing as he ran. "He couldn't have gotten far."

Nightwing followed along, running to catch up the Batman. As he saw Batman reaching the door, he was suddenly almost stopped dead in his steps by a jarring new thought. He continued to run, and called up to Batman before he could pass through the door. "Yes he could have . . . Shit!"

Batman gave a quick glance back in Nightwing's direction as he ran at full speed out the door. Nightwing burst out the door after him, running out halfway to the perimeter fence, and pulling up to a stop when his fear had been realized. "Forget it," Nightwing called to Batman as the Dark Knight was about to run through the open fence gate. "Forget it; he's gone."

"How do you know?" Batman asked, turning to face his old partner, then looking around again, continuing to tirelessly survey the scene.

Nightwing pointed to a spot outside the gate where it looked as though fresh tire tracks had been laid down. The dirt was turned up, loose. Nightwing shook his head ruefully, biting his lower lip. "He took my bike."

Batman looked from Nightwing to the tire tracks. "It wasn't registered in your name, was it?" he asked calmly.

"Of course not," Nightwing said, putting his hands on his hips. "I mean, I know you don't think much of me, but--"

Batman turn toward Nightwing and held up his palm. "Don't start."

Nightwing held his arms open, looking wide-eyed at Batman. "I'm not starting; I'm--"

"Don't," Batman ordered firmly, then turned and walked outside the perimeter fence.

Nightwing watched Batman with a withering gaze. "You're welcome," he muttered, half-under his breath. Even though there was no visible interruption in Batman's movements, Nightwing knew he had heard him. Starting slowly toward the open gate himself, Nightwing pulled a communication pad from the utility compartment on the top of his left forearm, and activated the earpiece in his left ear; they had to get home somehow, and now was as good a time as any to call Alfred.

Central Coroner's Office
3:10 p.m.

Just over ninety minutes ago, Daniel Furlong had been alive. Ashamed, terrified, terrorized -- but alive. Now, Detectives Cone and Soong stood over his lifeless body, nude, laying on a metal examination table in Room 236 of the Coroner's Office, covered from the shoulders down by a spotless white sheet. The dead man's face still bore not a look of final peace, but the twisted, unnatural grin of the Joker.

The doctor's name was Alan Resnick. He was a middle-aged, balding White man of average height and weight, a plain gray jogging suit on beneath his white lab coat. The only word that Soong could find to fit the doctor as he struggled mentally to put a definition on the man was "dumpy."

Dumpy, but not incompetent, Soong decided, perhaps being a bit hopeful as he watched Dr. Resnick pick up a clipboard and read over its first page thoughtfully.

After reading the chart on the clipboard to himself for a few moments, the doctor inhaled and looked up at the detectives, raising his eyebrows. "I understand you saw him die," he stated, his voice instilled with what could almost described as wonder.

Detective Cone nodded hesitantly. "Yes . . . he died in the cafeteria at Police Headquarters. I'm sure several people saw him die." Cone had found the doctor's statement more than a little awkward, not to mention distasteful, and he made that plain in his voice.

Dr. Resnick slid his glance across from Cone to Soong uncomfortably. "I apologize, detectives; I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that, from the trademark allergic reaction evidenced by the unnaturally contorted muscles in the patient's face, it was fairly obvious even before I'd done more than a cursory examination that he'd died from exposure to Substance One-One-Six-Four." The doctor took a moment and read the blank reactions of the detectives. "That's what we call the Joker's smiling toxin."

Cone nodded slowly, then shot the doctor an uncertain look. "But he had been away from the Joker for quite some time when we spoke with him. Days."

"Toxins can be diluted or mixed with other substances in order to delay the time of the body's reaction. The very fact of Substance One-One-Six-Four's existence would suggest that the Joker is a skilled chemist, so I definitely wouldn't put a timed-poison outside the sphere of his abilities."

Dr. Resnick lifted the limp right arm of Daniel Furlong and opened the palm of the dead man's hand, holding it up so the detectives could see. Resnick pointed to a small black point near the center of the palm. "This is a pin-prick -- the only mark I found on this man's entire body. It's a certainty that this is how the poison was delivered."

Soong stared skeptically at Furlong's lifeless hand. "A certainty?"

The doctor nodded and laid the man's hand back down at his side. "I'd say so, yes. I can recall several cases I myself worked on that involved pricks like this in the hand. It would seem to be a favored method of the Joker's, at least in those cases where he chooses to kill with his smiling toxin."

Cone looked at the doctor silently for a moment, then turned to Soong, arms crossed. "This doesn't really wash with me," he said in a low tone of voice. "You?"

"I'm not sure," Soong began slowly, shaking his head. "I mean, it doesn't make sense to use some innocent man for a murder, then leave him alive to testify. The Joker's crazy, but I never heard of him being this sloppy before."

Cone nodded in agreement. "Or this arrogant," he added.

"If I might interject, gentlemen?" Dr. Resnick offered, almost bashful. Cone and Soong cut short their conversation and both turned to the doctor. "Diluting toxins to time bodily reaction isn't always an exact science. If the Joker doesn't have access to precise enough equipment, he may have had to guess at how strong he was making the toxin. This pin-prick on the patient could have been made the last time the Joker saw Mr. Furlong. It might have been the Joker's intention to allow Furlong to live just long enough to resume his normal daily routine."

Cone considered the doctor's theory for a moment, but finally had to shake his head at it. "No," he said, then looked at Soong. "You're right; he wouldn't let him live without a reason. It was no accident that he died when he did, I'm sure of it." Cone raised his left wrist up and pushed his sleeve back. His watch read 3:15. He looked at Soong again. "We'd better hit it."

When the detectives were walking toward the elevator down the hallway of the coroner's office, Soong looked at his partner strangely. "We're late for an appointment or something?"

"No," Cone said, shaking his head, "I heard from someone at headquarters that Reeves' speech at the city council is going to be around four this afternoon. I want to try to head him off before he gets up there and convinces the council to order us to waste our time."

They reached the elevator, and Soong punched the Down button. "Reeves still thinks Batman did it."

"Right," Cone said with a nod. "And as much as I might relish the idea of that stuffed-shirt political moron making a total fool out of himself in front of his fellow councilmen, I don't think the taxpayers of this city need to feel any worse about their voting selections than they already must."

The elevator doors slid open and Soong and Cone stepped inside. "I had no idea you were this sensitive to the needs of the people," Soong stated with a smirk as the doors slid closed.

Beneath Wayne Manor
3:34 p.m.

Dick tossed his Nightwing mask onto the stone pedestal, then unfastened the bottom of his tunic from the waist of the bottoms of his costume and pulled the tunic off over his head. "Shit," he spat out, tossing the tunic angrily onto the pedestal, on top of the mask. "I don't know what the hell I was thinking. I knew I was gonna find something this time . . ."

Alfred had picked up Nightwing and Batman in the generic-looking red utility van that Robin had depended on as his mode of transportation before getting the Redbird. Batman had found a set of Bruce Wayne's civilian clothes waiting for him, and immediately traded in his cape and cowl, and the silk boxers the Joker had forced him to wear. Now, Bruce sat at the computer console dressed in casual tan slacks and a white cotton button-up shirt, the chair swiveled around to face the large main monitor of the computer bank. "It's no use killing yourself over it now," Bruce said as he looked at the screen, which currently displayed a map of Gotham City with a coordinate grid overlay. "What's done is done."

Dick lapsed helplessly into weak laughter, calming himself after only a few seconds. "You'd know a lot about that, huh?"

Bruce gave no response. Dick turned around to face his direction, leaning back on the stone pedestal. "So, what did the Joker do to you?"

"He killed Harvey Harris, then subjected me to one of his twisted mind games," Bruce answered simply, as if for him it had been a typical experience, which in many ways it had been.

"But what was the point? I mean, not that there necessarily has to be one with him, but he's never really just randomly murdered and kidnapped before. It always makes sense on some level, at least to him."

Bruce shook his head. "When the victim is Batman, that's the point. He murdered Jason, my partner; the last thought Harvey Harris had before he died was that Batman was murdering him; and to finish it off, he wanted to hurt me again in the same place he'd hurt me before. He remembers Jason's death as well as I do, and the . . . problems it caused."

Dick only allowed himself to nod.

"From the way he talked just before you came in, he wasn't expecting Nightwing to show up; he wanted Robin to be the one to track me down," Bruce observed gravely.

Dick clenched his jaw and shook his head slowly. "He wanted to kill another Robin."

Bruce nodded, still facing the computer bank. "He almost did."

There was a long silence as neither man spoke.

Finally, Bruce began typing on the keyboard. A bright red dot appeared on the map of Gotham, illuminated on a small section of neighborhoods near Border Avenue. Bruce tapped two keys; the map zoomed in, the dot remaining the same size, pinpointing the specific location. Bruce watched the map and zoomed in once more; the dot was over a stretch of sidewalk between 995 and 999 Border Avenue. "Your motorcycle is on Border Avenue," Bruce said, directing his voice in Dick's general direction.

"Bordertown?" Dick said in depressed disbelief. "Terrific." Dick grabbed his tunic and mask from the pedestal, then started back toward the costume vault. "I think I've got a change of clothes still here," he muttered to himself, then said in a louder voice directed toward Bruce, "Can I take the van? I'd better go pick it up before it gets dark."

Bruce gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "You've got about three hours until sunset."

Dick walked back into the vault. "I'll watch the clock," he called back behind him.

Gotham City Hall
Office of Councilman Arthur Reeves
3:52 p.m.

Arthur Reeves kept a private office in Roxbury, and rarely had any use for this one except for last-minute speech preparation. In approximately eight minutes, the Gotham City Council would convene and Reeves would formally request that the council officially suggest to the police department that they consider the Batman to be a suspect in the murder of Harvey Harris and issue a warrant for the vigilante's arrest.

Reeves had taken a peek at what was going on in the council chambers; the press was already assembled and waiting. Reeves enjoyed the press. To put it more precisely, he enjoyed manipulating them. After three terms as a councilman, he had become quite adept at coaxing the media to put whatever spin on a story he wished them to put on it. It was almost easy. And, with the speech he had prepared, it would certainly be no great task to turn the press against the Batman, who was already a topic of great divisiveness, both in the council itself and among the general population of the city.

Looking up at the sound of two quick knocks at his door, Reeves saw Detective Ben Cone stepping into the office, followed after a step or two by Detective Kevin Soong. Reeves put on a smile. "Detectives," he said cordially, standing from his chair, "good to see you. You're just in time for my address to the council."

"What a coincidence," Cone commented wryly as he turned and closed the door to Reeves' office. "Funny how we should show up just now."

Reeves sat back down, leaning back in his chair casually, regarding the detectives now not as guests, but intruders. "What can I do for you two?" he asked sharply, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair and interlocking his fingers in front of him.

"Not giving this speech would be a good start."

Reeves smiled in spite of himself. He looked back at Cone, almost laughing. "Why would I want to do a silly thing like that? Everyone's already here, you know."

"Batman didn't kill Harvey Harris, you know," Cone fired back, putting his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. "This speech would be a waste of your time, and possibly result in a waste of police time and manpower as well."

"How so?" Reeves asked, as if he were genuinely curious.

Cone pulled his right hand out of his coat pocket. He held a microcassette recorder. He slid a switch atop it back a notch and the tape inside rewound a bit. Cone pushed play, and the timid, frightened voice of a man spoke from the device's small speaker:

"He had white skin . . . I knew who it was as soon as he walked in. He wasn't wearing a disguise or a mask or a hat or anything . . . he must've just walked right in from the street."

The voice of Cone himself came next on the tape, speaking in an almost hushed tone of voice. "Mr. Furlong, the Joker bought the knife? The Joker?"

Reeves brought his right hand up and put it on his chin thoughtfully as the tape continued, again with the frightened man's voice.

"He was so civil, so quiet. I'd always thought of him as a maniac, some out-of-control murderer . . . poor Joel . . ."

Cone stopped the tape and slipped the recorder back in his pocket. "The man on this tape is dead now, Councilman. The Joker murdered him as sure as he murdered Harvey Harris."

Arthur Reeves sat forward again in his chair, clasping his hands and resting them on his desk. He looked at Detective Cone's right coat pocket, then up at the man's face. "If I were to listen to that tape, I don't suppose I would hear anything about this being an official statement. I don't suppose a lawyer was present to represent this man. In fact, I don't suppose there's anything on this tape that would make it anywhere close to admissible in court."

"I didn't tape it for the courts," Cone explained with a clear, quiet, calm tone of voice. "The man on this tape is dead. His body is enough evidence to prove the Joker's involvement in the Harris killing. So is the body of this man's employee. And the knife that was used to kill him. I don't need this tape for anything. I taped it so that there would be a record of the truth. For me. For you."

"How kind . . ." Reeves said darkly. He stood up behind his desk. "From the sound of things, your evidence is purely circumstantial. You have no witnesses -- no admissible ones, at least -- nothing to suggest absolutely that the Joker was involved with that crime at all."

"We've got his smiling toxin in that man's body," Soong asserted.

"Which could have been stolen or synthesized by another party, perhaps the Batman, who I'm sure we'd all agree has had more contact with the Joker than anyone else who's still alive," Reeves countered, crossing his arms in a gesture of confidence.

"Are you telling me . . . you would actually be ready to go out there and lie to those people in the council chambers, even knowing what you know now?" Detective Cone abandoned his facade of calm, and now was plainly struggling to control his anger. "I know that being a politician involves a certain lack of personal morals, especially here, but to go out there and lie . . . to willfully and knowingly speak out for misdirecting a police investigation . . . to obstruct justice . . ."

Soong put his hand on his partner's shoulder and stepped in front of him calmly. "The evidence linking Batman to the Harris murder is even more circumstantial than what we've got," Soong told Reeves, trying to make the statement sound as much like a gentle reminder as he could, and almost succeeding.

Reeves remained standing, arms crossed, clinging to his confidence still. "You pursue the investigation as you see fit, and I will do the same."

Cone pushed Soong to the side and stepped forward, slamming his hands down on top of Reeves' desk. "Dammit, you're not a detective," he yelled, looking up at the councilman's face angrily. Cone stood up straight and pointed directly at Reeves, his finger only inches from the other man's eyes. "You're a beaurocrat. And not even a very good one of those."

Cone turned his back on the councilman, opened the door and started out into the hall. Before he walked away, he stepped one foot back inside and pointed at Reeves again. "Just think about this, all right? Try to be something other than pompous and self-serving for once in your life, and keep your ignorant nose out of where it doesn't belong."

Detective Cone stalked down the hall away from the office. Detective Soong followed him, leaving the office without another word.

When he was sure they were gone, Arthur Reeves walked around from behind the desk and closed the door. He fought hard against the urge to slam the door, and almost won.