Interrogation

By the time Batman chased him deep into the alley, Mickey was gone.

Gotham is a hellhole, most of the time you can't get to heaven, but sometimes you can get to hell, Batman looked at the manhole cover that had been half-lifted, emitting a foul stench, leading to the sewers of Gotham City.

He ignored the refreshing stench, quickly opened the manhole cover, and leaped down, landing directly at the bottom.

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

In the empty, dark sewer, a monster's voice echoed.

After landing lightly, the black bat saw the large brute in the sewer. He glanced at Mickey, who had been knocked to the ground, his life or death unknown, and was very worried that this three-meter-tall brute had punched him to death.

"Don't get excited, Grundy, I don't mean to disturb you, I'm just here to catch this person who disturbed you."

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday."

"A friend told me, black, pointed ears, stay away, ignore him."

Strangely, after seeing Batman, Grundy mumbled, turned his head, and walked into the depths of the sewer, ignoring him and Mickey.

"How rare," Batman said, watching Grundy leave. He retracted his hand, which had been reaching for his utility belt. The pathetic, tattered brute seemed to have become much quieter. At least every time he had seen him before, it had ended in a fight, so he had prepared special weapons for him—but they were completely unused this time.

"Who was the friend he mentioned? Who could be friends with Solomon Grundy?"

He silently pondered this question. After confirming that Mickey was only unconscious, he took him back to the police station.

Then, time came to the present.

"We know you did it, Mickey, but we also know you're just a small fish, and the only use for a small fish is to catch a big fish."

"Fish?"

Commissioner Gordon, wearing a white shirt, stood by the table, his expression serious. There was the authority of an old police chief in his words and actions: "We want to know who hired you to do this job, Mickey. If you help us, maybe we can help you."

Seeing Mickey's innocent look, Gordon frowned, his face showing stern anger: "I don't want to be here. My wife made turkey and other delicious dishes at home—that's where an honest and upright person should be today."

"But justice doesn't take holidays, Mickey. If you don't tell us who paid you to kill the Gotham City District Attorney, I'll miss Thanksgiving dinner."

Mickey, a repeat offender, just chuckled at this mild threat. Knowing he was at the police station, he no longer acted like a rat in a sewer, full of unease and fear. He knew this place was within the rules, and he wouldn't be in mortal danger within the rules—he even fantasized about getting away with it by simply denying everything.

He mocked in broken English with an Irish accent: "Then I guess you might really miss your Thanksgiving, pal, because I don't know Carmine Falcone, never even heard of him—what did you call him? 'The Roman'?"

It was obvious that before today, he had not experienced the Bat's methods.

At this moment, Batman's voice sounded again. This time, he emerged from the shadows, holding a small evidence bag containing a slightly bent, charred iron nail.

"The bomb you made destroyed Dent's house. This nail is part of the bomb. Each nail has a serial number. We traced it back to the manufacturer and found a hardware store only two blocks from your apartment, and we got the receipt."

Batman lowered his head, looking coldly into Mickey's sweating forehead, crushing his psychological defenses with the final conclusion.

"You bought these nails."

The atmosphere froze for a few seconds. With irrefutable evidence, Mickey finally sighed, completely giving up any intention of arguing about this matter.

"Harvey Dent. He really asked for trouble. Even if it wasn't me, there would be plenty of other people in this area willing to do it."

"You caught me, that's right, I made the bomb, you want me to confess like this, right? Pal, I'll write it all down for you."

"But don't get me wrong about one thing."

At this point, Mickey's expression suddenly became a bit strange. He had a half-smile on his face, his expression half-hidden in the shadows of the interrogation room: "We all know where Mr. Dent went and what he did."

"What do you mean?" Gordon's face showed obvious anger upon hearing this: "What are you trying to say?"

"This is the only question you need to ask yourself—who killed Johnny Vitti?"

This time, the atmosphere was even more stagnant and tense than before.

"You're not needed here anymore, get out, Mickey."

In prison, the Irish Mob finally reunited.

"Brothers, you all know what to say, right?" Mickey, who had just been sent to prison, stood with his back to the light, so his blurry face and expression were unclear, but from his distorted accent, it was clear he had been interrogated quite a bit.

"Mickey, we've gone over our stories, I don't want to do it again," Donny shook his head.

"We've never been in such a dangerous situation before."

"Then let's do it like we always do—concoct a story to mess with them!"

At this, everyone chuckled knowingly. They were all too familiar with this kind of thing.

"I was the one driving the getaway car that day. I'll write it all down if you need it."

"The package I delivered to that woman was Harvey Dent's wife, Mrs. Dent, you know. I'll write it all down if you need it."

"I followed Dent to his house, yes, I did, I followed him until he got home. I'll write it all down if you need it, I will."

"I pressed the damn remote control button. And I'll write it all down, if you need it,"

Five testimonies, including Mickey's, rehearsed, with no loopholes—no matter how much the Roman paid them, it was worth it.

Batman thought this silently.

A police officer on standby heard a low, hoarse voice from the darkness: "Bring Mickey back."

So, Mickey, one of the five, was brought back again.

"Did they ask about anything?"

"Nothing, no one mentioned Falcone's name."

Mickey sighed, reaching up to tear off the grotesque mask, revealing Harvey Dent's chiseled features. "My Irish accent is terrible, but thankfully those idiots couldn't tell – now that it's come to this, I don't have to pretend to be dead anymore."

Time rewound to before the explosion. In the underground room, Harvey received a call.

"Mr. Harvey Dent, the Romans send their regards."

"For the next three minutes, our call won't be tapped – unless someone's bugged your home, but as far as I know, you're not that careless, and that person wouldn't allow you to be monitored."

"So I'll get straight to the point – there's a bomb in the package upstairs, but I swapped it out for a small, low-yield one. It'll make a nice flash, but it won't do much damage."

Harvey listened to the voice on the phone, his expression gradually turning grim and angry.

"Don't speak, just keep listening. The package code is 1942. Inside, besides the bomb, there's a Cross Necklace. Give it to your wife, or wear it yourself. Believe it or not, this Cross Necklace will keep a person safe."

"The bomb will be activated when you go upstairs. I've changed it to a delayed fuse, so you'll have an extra ten seconds. Don't go upstairs until you've figured out how to use those ten seconds to escape."

"Finally – don't dispose of the bomb directly. Someone has to claim Falcone's bounty. After 'dying' once, the Romans won't hunt you a second time."

"Good luck, Prosecutor Harvey."