Alberto Falcone's death records were clean.
There was a death certificate.
There was a morgue transfer form.
There was a relative's signature claiming the body.
There was even a cemetery payment.
Gotham loved this kind of clean. Every field filled in, every sheet stamped, no blood on the paper, no guns, and no sound of a body falling from a yacht into the sea.
Alberto Falcone was dead.
On paper, he was thoroughly dead.
The man himself, not necessarily.
By the time Gordon arrived at Wayne Medical Center, Bruce had already handed the documents to the police. Harvey followed behind him, his coat still unbuttoned, holding an emergency subpoena from the prosecutor's office.
Chen Mo crouched on the awning outside the emergency building, watching them enter through the glass.
"Gotham hospitals have quite a range of business tonight," he said. "Saving a mob godfather in the morning, investigating a mob heir rising from the dead at night. You could put your range of services in a brochure."
Gordon glanced up at him.
"If you want to come in, use the door."
"No thanks. Windows and I have recently established a stable working relationship."
Gordon had no time for him.
Wayne Medical Center's toxicology emergency unit was on the seventh floor.
Carmine Falcone was still inside.
Wayne's doctors drew his blood out through one line and returned it through another. Machines beeped beside the bed, and a row of numbers flickered on the screen. The white sheet had been pulled down below his chest, electrodes stuck to his skin, an oxygen mask pressed against his face, and IV tubing ran from the head of the bed to the stand.
He had grown much thinner.
One day earlier, the Roman had still been sitting at the dining table, listening to reports of