Interrogation

By the time Batman chased him deep into the alley, Mickey had vanished.

In a godforsaken place like Gotham, there was usually no way out—but sometimes, there was a way down. Batman looked at the manhole cover beneath his feet, half torn open and belching a terrible stench. It led straight into Gotham City's sewers.

He ignored the nose-searing odor, quickly opened the manhole cover, and leaped down, landing directly at the bottom of the shaft.

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

The monster's voice echoed through the empty, dark sewer.

After the black bat landed lightly, he saw the large figure in the sewer. He glanced at Mickey, who had been knocked down nearby and appeared to be unconscious, and worried that the over-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 apprehend the man who bothered you."

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday."

"Friend said, black, pointy ears, stay away, don't bother him."

Strangely, after seeing Batman, Grundy muttered and turned away, walking deeper into the sewer. He no longer paid any attention to either him or Mickey.

"How rare." Watching Grundy leave without another word, Batman withdrew the hand reaching for his utility belt. The ragged, pitiful brute seemed to have suddenly become much calmer. At the very least, whenever Batman had encountered him in the past, things had almost always ended in a fight. That was why he had prepared specialized weapons for dealing with him—but this time, they had not been needed at all.

"Who was he talking about when he said 'friend'? Who could be friends with Solomon Grundy?"

He silently pondered the question. After confirming that Mickey was merely unconscious, he took him straight back to the station.

And then, time caught up with the present.

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

"A fish?"

Commissioner Gordon stood beside the table in a white shirt, his expression stern. His words and manner carried the authority of a veteran police chief. "We want to know who hired you for this job, Mickey. If you help us, maybe we can help you."

Seeing Mickey's innocent expression, Gordon furrowed his brow, stern anger appearing on his face. "I don't want to be here. My wife made turkey and all kinds of delicious food at home—that's where an honest, upright man ought to be today."

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

Faced with such a toothless threat, habitual offender Mickey merely snickered. Once he had confirmed that he was in the police station, he was no longer as uneasy and fearful as a sewer rat. He knew this place operated within the rules, and within the rules, his life was never in danger—he even imagined he could get off by simply denying everything.

In his halting English, spoken with an Irish accent, he sneered, "Then I guess you really might miss Thanksgiving, mate, because I don't know Carmine Falcone. Never even heard of him—which one did you call him again? 'The Roman'?"

Clearly, he had never experienced the Bat's methods before today.

At that moment, Batman's voice sounded again. This time, he stepped out of the shadows, holding a small evidence bag containing a slightly twisted, charred iron nail.

"The bomb you made destroyed the Dents' home. This nail was part of the bomb. Every nail has a serial number. We traced it back to the manufacturer, then to a hardware store two blocks from your apartment. We also obtained the receipt."

Batman lowered his head and stared coldly at Mickey, whose brow had begun to sweat. Then he crushed the man's psychological defenses with the final conclusion.

"You bought these nails."

The atmosphere froze for several seconds. Faced with irrefutable evidence, Mickey finally sighed and completely abandoned any intention of arguing over the matter.

"Harvey Dent. He brought the trouble on himself. Even if it hadn't been me, there'd still be plenty of people in this area willing to do the job."

"You caught me, all right. I made the bomb. That's what you want me to say, isn't it, mate? I'll write it all down for you."

"But there's one thing. Don't get it wrong."

At that, Mickey's expression suddenly became strange. His face wore a half-smile, 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 clear anger. "What are you trying to say?"

"There's only one person who can answer that question—you. Who killed Johnny Vitti?"

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

"There's nothing more for you here. Get out, Mickey."

In prison, the Irish Mob finally came together again.

"Boys, you all know what to say, right?" Mickey had only just been sent to prison. With his back to the light, the others could not make out his blurred features or expression, but judging from his distorted, off-key accent, he had clearly been interrogated quite thoroughly.

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

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

"Then we'll do what we did before—stick to our stories and screw them over!"

At that, everyone broke into knowing, malicious laughter. They were already well practiced at this sort of thing.

"I was the one driving the car and taking everyone away from the scene that day. I'll write it all down if you need me to."

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

"I followed Dent to his house. That's right, I did it. I followed him all the way home. If you need it all written down, I will."

"I was the one who pressed that damned remote-control button. And I'll write everything down if you need me to."

Five statements, including Mickey's, matched perfectly without a single flaw. No matter how much the Roman had paid them, he had gotten his money's worth.

Batman thought this silently.

From beside him, a waiting officer heard a low, hoarse voice emerge from the darkness. "Bring Mickey back."

And so Mickey, one of the five, was brought back once again.

"Did you find out anything?"

"Nothing. Not one of them mentioned Falcone's name."

Mickey sighed, reached up, and tore off the lewd-looking facial skin, revealing the sharply defined face of Harvey Dent. "My Irish accent is absolutely terrible. Luckily, those idiots couldn't tell. Now that things have come this far, I don't have to keep pretending to be dead."

Before the explosion, back in the basement, Harvey received a phone call.

"Mr. Harvey Dent, the Roman sends his regards."

"For the next three minutes, there is no chance of anyone eavesdropping on this call—unless someone in your house has already installed a listening device. But as far as I know, you aren't that careless, and that person wouldn't allow you to be monitored."

"So I'll get straight to the point—the package upstairs contains a bomb. But I switched it out for a low-yield bomb. The explosion will be spectacular, but it won't do much damage."

As Harvey listened to the voice on the phone, his expression gradually darkened with anger.

"Don't speak. Keep listening. The package's code is 1942. Besides the bomb, there's also a Cross Necklace inside. Give it to your wife, or wear it yourself. Whether you believe it or not, this Cross Necklace can guarantee one person's safety."

"The bomb will be activated when you go upstairs. I changed it to a delayed detonation, so you 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 yourself. Someone has to collect Falcone's bounty. Once the Roman believes you're 'dead,' he won't come after you a second time."

"Good luck, Harvey Prosecutor."