Cobblepot froze at those words. He glanced back at the fat man and said, "But he confessed."
Schiller frowned. He walked over and took a close look at the fat man pinned to the floor. There was nothing unusual about him compared with an ordinary gang member. He wore a tight suit, sweated profusely in the heat, and trembled all over. The fat on his face quivered as though grease might drip from it.
"He's Farnsworth's biological nephew." Cobblepot glanced at the fat man again, clicked his tongue, and said, "Farnsworth didn't get along with his sister. But after she left home to strike out on her own, she was murdered. For the sake of appearances, Farnsworth adopted Frankfort, who was still young at the time, though he never paid much attention to him."
Schiller sat down on the sofa nearby and frowned at the man called Frankfort. He looked almost thirty, but he had none of the usual gangsters' viciousness. Even in the black suit commonly worn by gang members, he looked more like an insurance salesman.
"Farnsworth isn't particularly authoritarian. He dislikes this nephew not because of his sister, but because the boy is too timid. Even hearing gunshots in the manor would make him cry. Farnsworth thinks that disgraces the Farnsworth family."
"No wonder." Schiller rubbed the handle of his umbrella with his fingers, then repeated his conclusion. "Though this would count as a miracle in Gotham, he really has never killed anyone."
"How could you tell?" Cobblepot asked curiously.
Schiller did not answer. He looked up at the standing Cobblepot and asked, "You said he confessed. What did he confess to?"
"He had some grudges against Little Farnsworth and Old Mrs. Spencer, and he wanted to kill them." Cobblepot walked over to Schiller's side, looked at