A .22 Caliber Clipper Pistol with its serial number filed off, eleven gleaming metal casings, a shattered baby pacifier, and a colorful Horn of Plenty sat on the table.
The turkey on the dining table had not yet been carved. Delicious dishes lay overturned, and expensive red wine had spilled across the floor, mixing with the viscous blood and making it look even more vivid.
Finally, there were five cold corpses in suits, collapsed around the table.
Same method, same calling card, same weapon, and the same deaths. Looking at the five people with wildly imaginative theories in the newspaper, Gordon fell into a long silence.
"Ring-ring—"
The telephone's ringing woke Harvey Dent, who had been slumped by the window. He rubbed his bleary eyes, then walked wearily and quietly out of the room before answering the phone.
"Harvey? Where are you?"
"Gordon? I'm at the hospital. Glinda woke up this morning."
"You stayed there all night? Sigh... In any case, thank God. At least we finally have some good news this morning."
Harvey could hear something strange in Commissioner Gordon's voice and asked directly, "Did something happen?"
"Five members of the Irish Mob went to a private room at the Astoria Tower Hotel last night to eat and drink, and then the Holiday Killer blew their heads off."
"The Holiday Killer." Harvey's gaze suddenly froze because he saw Glinda's smooth neck in the room.
There was no Cross Necklace there.
"Those five had enough money to go carousing at the Astoria Tower Hotel, which means they made a fortune—from me."
"...That's right."
"So that's why you asked where I was last night."
"Harvey, I just wanted to rule out the possibility that it was you."
"Gordon, we've known each other for a long time. I'm not going to get