GCPD headquarters, underground interrogation area.
Half the incandescent lights were broken.
The remaining light hung overhead, flickering on and off. A dead moth lay inside the shade, its scorched wings stuck to the inside of the glass.
Yang Ming sat behind the interrogation table.
Both hands were cuffed to iron rings on the tabletop.
His Armani suit was completely ruined. A hole had burned through one cuff, blackened blood stained the collar, and the bruising on his right shoulder from the blast had begun to turn purple.
Two armed officers stood outside the door.
They watched through the one-way glass. Neither dared sit down.
The mayor was dead.
More precisely, he had exploded into a floor full of shredded flesh right in front of Yang Ming.
Now all of Gotham was saying that the Asian Black Doctor from the East End had stormed into the mayor's office, killed him, and nearly blown down half of City Hall.
The television stations were broadcasting it.
The radio stations were condemning him.
The newspapers were printing extra editions overnight.
As for the truth?
In Gotham, the truth never outsold a sensational enough headline.
Click.
The interrogation room door swung open.
Bruce Wayne walked in.
He wore no suit, nor did he have any of the flippancy expected of a playboy. He had only a black cashmere sweater on, its sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and carried a cup of coffee that had gone completely cold.
The door closed.
Bruce stood in front of the table and first glanced at the cuffs around Yang Ming's wrists.
Then he spoke.
"I know you're not the killer."
His voice was very low.
"But you've made too big a mess."
Bruce pulled out a chair and sat down, his blue eyes fixed on Yang Ming.
"What